“Catalina,” Grandma Frida called out behind me. “When you’re done cutting up the body, call me. I’ll help you hide it.” I turned and looked at her. Grandma flexed her arm. “Ride or die.” I squinted at her. “I’m still mad at you for ratting me out.” “You looked like death warmed over,” Grandma said. “You may be the Head of House Baylor, but you’re still my granddaughter and I won’t be taking any of your bullshit.” “How is my sweater coming along, Grandma? Have you knitted more than two inches yet?” Grandma Frida gave me the Look of Death.
