Eleanor sat cross-legged on the sofa, a pencil moving slowly across the pages of a scrapbook she had bought at the mall.
Line after line appeared beneath the graphite tip.
She was trying to give shape to something that existed beyond her understanding.
A figure. A silhouette. A presence.
The outlines came easily, as if her hand remembered something her mind did not. But when she reached the face, she stopped.
Every time.
No expression—nothing.
The figure seemed incapable of emotion, and no matter how hard she tried, Eleanor could not imagine what its face looked like.
The scratching of the pencil was suddenly interrupted by a sharp metallic click.
The door unlocking.
Eleanor froze.
Without thinking, she snapped the scrapbook shut and shoved it beneath the sofa cushions just as t
