Savannah is in a horrible place. It’s not the kind of place you walk through easily.
The flickering lights make her bruises look worse than they are—dark purple along her jaw, the cut on her lip still leaking. They’ve got her chained to a heavy steel chair like she’s some kind of wild animal, the metal digging into her wrists hard enough to leave raw marks.
But she’s still smirking. Same damn smirk she gave me when we were kids, right before she stole something of mine just to piss me off.
Now she tilts her head, blood-dried hair sticking to her face, and grins at me like this is funny. Her voice sounds wrecked, like she’s been screaming for hours. “Well, well,” she rasps. “Look who finally showed up. Daddy’s favorite.”
I don’t react. I’ve practiced this too many times to mess up now.
