Bunce is gone from our room. Snow’s in bed, and the windows are open. He’s showered. Snow uses the soap the school provides—he smells like a hospital when he’s clean. I don’t bother rinsing my face or changing. Just strip to my undershirt and pants, and climb in my bed. I feel like death. Death not even warmed over. As soon as I’m settled—eyes closed, willing myself not to cry again—Snow clears his throat. Awake, then. I won’t cry. “I’ll help you,” he says—so softly, only a vampire could hear him. “Help me what?” “I’ll help you find whatever killed your mother.” “Why?” He rolls over to face my
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