It was cold and cutting, like a January wind, and strangely . . . bloodless. It was an odd way to describe anger, which usually registered as hot and sharp, like a slap. But there was no heat here, only a blue-white conflagration that felt like fire but wasn’t. No, that wasn’t right. It wasn’t anger she was picking up. It was despair. A void so deep, so achingly familiar, it made her throat clench.
