The sight of her sister’s face covered in blood ripped Bexley Squires from a hard, deep sleep. The nightmare had been so real she would have sworn Cineste had been in her room.
It reminded her of the time Cineste had sliced the heel of her foot open on a metal drain grate. The sight of bone and a small river of blood had triggered a numbing terror in the pit of Bexley’s stomach. At the time, their mother had been too weak from chemotherapy to leave her bed, and their father was on deployment. It was up to Bexley. She had been convinced Cineste would die so she did the only sensible thing the mind of a twelve-year-old could think of, and stole the neighbor’s car.
Cineste’s unknown fate had consumed Bexley’s every waking thought since she received the fateful call from her father nearly two months prior.
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