“It’s not as crazy as it sounds,” she finally explained, deciding she would share a little bit with him, but only a little. “I didn’t read her dead mind. It’s not anything psychic. I spent three years in solitary confinement. I had no books, no music, no movies, no color. The only thing I had was one evil man’s face and body, and reading him became my entire existence. I lived for his visits, for the stimulation. Every line, every nuance, every muscle contraction, every flicker of thought—I read him. And I can read this girl even though she’s dead. I know that sounds weird, but echoes of her
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