Chapter 6
Episode 6policija danute isvaryts rebonas...klipti ir i snuki ir von prsgara
The autumn air had sharpened since that afternoon in the park, and the sketchbook lay open on the kitchen table like a wound I kept picking at. The pages were brittle, the graphite smudged into ghosts of faces I had almost forgotten. Danutė’s face was there—round, smug, her braids pulled too tight, her eyes narrowed in that way that made me feel small even now, years later. I traced the line of her jaw with my finger, and the paper crumbled slightly at the edge.
I hadn’t thought about her in years. Not really. But the laughter in the park had been unmistakable—that same high, twittering sound she used to make when she and her pack circled me in the schoolyard, their voices like crows picking at something wounded. I had been the wounded thing. I had let them believe it.
The phone rang, and I jumped. It was my mother, her voice crackling through the receiver like dried leaves.
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