RILEY
Daria came on a Thursday. She was thirty-four, taller than me, with the particular quality of stillness that I recognized because I had it too — the kind you develop when you've been operating without a pack for most of your adult life and have learned to read rooms instead of relying on them.
She sat across from me at the workbench in bay one and we looked at each other for a moment without saying anything.
Then she said: "You look exactly like the photograph."
"Which photograph."
"The one Reyes has. From his pack records. The one taken just before—" She stopped. "You have his jaw. And the—" She touched her own temple. "The way you hold your eyes."
I'd seen that photograph. Grayson's photocopy. I'd been looking at it intermittently for weeks, trying to find myself in it, and s
