“Your sister needs you,” Nash tells me, and then his hands find their way to my face—again. I can’t help remembering the other times, can’t help remembering Cartago. “She needs you, Lib.” The real me. That’s what he’s saying. I am dyed-neon hair and dark nails and way too much kohl rimming my eyes. I’m thigh-high boots and black velvet chokers. I’m not normal. I’m not special. I’m me.
