SERAPHINA’S POV
Hours later, I could still hear the screech of tires.
Could still see the sickening sway of Celeste’s body, the blur of her hair as she toppled sideways into the street.
Even after she disappeared into the ambulance, and I climbed in after her, after the sirens wailed us down the road, Mrs. Harlow’s terrier racing after us, my chest wouldn’t unclench.
I sat there in a haze, the once serene world around me suddenly too bright, too loud, too fast.
And so fucking confusing.
I couldn’t fathom it.
‘You’re not the only one who can fake a crisis, sweetie.’
I remembered once when Celeste got nothing more than a paper cut and treated it as though she’d been mortally wounded.
She shrieked that she could see bone, demanded an ambulance, and even sprawled across the chaise like a tragic heroine awaiting her last rites.
