The kitchen door opens, and Seraphine walks out, holding a half-eaten sandwich. Blood soaks the front of her sweatshirt, rolled up jogging pants, and coats her dainty little feet. There’s no telling if she’s just pressed two slices together or has gathered up the dubious meat, but she stares straight into my eyes, brings the bread to her mouth, and takes a bite as though issuing a challenge. “Stop that.” My jaw clenches. Without stopping to chew her mouthful, she takes another bite. Her gaze fixes on mine with open defiance. She’s like a cat that’s eaten the proverbial canary and gives no
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