“I’m Cassie,” I said. The child said nothing. “What’s your name?” I asked. She looked down. Beside her on the ground, there was a white origami flower, soaked in blood. “Nine,” she whispered. “My name is Nine.” A chill ran down my spine, leaving nothing but fury in its wake. You’re not a part of them, I thought, fiercely protective. She was just a baby—just a little, little girl. “Your mommy called you something else,” I said, trying to remember the name the woman had used that day at the fountain. “Laurel. Mommy calls me Laurel.”
