“I go by Ethel.” When shitheads don’t insist on using my full antediluvian name. “Ethel. Pretty.” His nod is pleased, but his tone suggests that he’s not above gutting pretty things. He reaches forward to take a lock of my hair between his fingertips, turning it back and forth. “What color is this?” I swallow. “Um . . . strawberry blond?” “Strawberry blond,” he repeats, and even though he doesn’t say pretty again, I can almost hear it.
