ELENA
If looks could kill, I would have become a pile of ash wafting in the dust because of the death glare Rosa cast my way. Her eyes morph from bewildered ones into slits, dangerous lines similar to a serpent’s crossed look. Her face crunches like she is constipated before she huffs, flips her hair, and walks out of the garden without speaking a word to me.
I see through the act and the mask she wears. The desperation to play it off like she hadn’t been doing something sinister. Her jumpiness, her silent departure—there were telltale signs that something fishy is going on.
Who was she whispering to? The way her body was aligned away from the entrance to the garden, guarding the words that slipped out of her mouth, it is obvious that she didn’t want anyone to hear her conversation.
It
