“Everything will be okay,” she says, parroting the words. “The worst is over now.” She wedges the silver handle of the brush between her bottom ribs, and in that moment, Lottie changes. All her pretenses—of confusion, of kindness, of compassion—die away, and so does the image of the beautiful girl perched on the bed in the dark, curls stained violet. In its place, Alice sees the one who danced with Sabine through stolen halls. Who butchered families in their homes. Who let girls die because she couldn’t bear to sleep alone.
