MELISSA
“I don’t want to cut my hair or dye it,” I admit as we pull up in front of the hairdresser. The city where the forger lives is a small, desolate place, windswept and snowy. Next to Lloyd, which nestles close to Poughkeepsie and is a short drive from the city, this town feels as remote as an Alaskan outpost.
“I don’t want you to either—your hair is wonderful.” He parks, then leans over and nuzzles my hair briefly as I giggle. “But it’s also distinguishing, and you have some frightful people looking for you.”
“I understand. It’s just...” My hair is the only thing I inherited from my mother—besides her horrible situation. Everyone in my dad’s family is darker with hair the color of coffee. Being the token redhead always felt like a mutiny.
“It won’t be forever. Maybe get a weave s
