She hasn’t been dead long. I twist around and press my brow against the dirt, eyes clenched shut. I can’t fake innocence. I knew it. I knew it. The body in Alex’s grave has a bullet in her stomach. Her throat is slit. Wormwood leaves wreathe her hair, and hellebore flowers bloom where her eyes should be. She’s the perfect picture of Flora Grayfriar’s corpse.
