Maxwell didn't hear another word.
A gust of wind lifted the white sheet covering the body, revealing a corner of what lay beneath. And there it was—that face, both achingly familiar and horrifyingly foreign, piercing through his vision like a knife.
"No." The word escaped him in a broken whisper. "This can't be."
His legs carried him forward in unsteady steps, his hands rising and falling in helpless tremors. The staff recoiled at the sight of the mutilated face, their anger flaring anew.
"They say every wound on the dead tells a story," one of them muttered bitterly, unable to look away. "Look at her. Clearly abused. Her feet are shredded to pulp, her face ruined with untreated gashes, her body starved down to bone. What kind of monster could do this to such a beautiful girl?"
"Gone
