CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
I’m in the apartment I’ve been sharing with Mom on Gomorrah. She’s looking at me, her pretty brown eyes sad as always. I know for a fact she’s had at least a week of poor sleep, yet she’s as beautiful as ever. Whatever pleasant facial features I have, I undoubtedly inherited from her. In fact, out of the two of us, she’s the one who looks like Halle Berry.
“Not this again,” she says, sounding tired.
“Your symptoms are worsening.” My voice rises an octave; I can’t help it. “I heard you screaming at night.”
Her face turns ashen. “Did you walk into my bedroom?”
I glare at her. “No. More importantly, I didn’t break my promise. I didn’t invade your precious dreams.”
She exhales in relief. “I just had a nightmare, that’s all.”
“About what?” I cross my arms in front of
