Unmasking Christina

The rain had stopped, but the air still clung to the damp chill of the night. Chris stood at the edge of the clearing, his flashlight beam cutting through the darkness, illuminating the huddled figures of the group. They had made camp in the shell of an old gas station, the broken windows letting in the cold, the smell of stale fuel and rust hanging heavy. Marie was asleep against Yasmine's shoulder, Monte sitting cross-legged nearby, his eyes too wide for sleep.

No one was resting. Not really.

Christina sat apart from the others, her back against a rusted soda machine, her knife out, cleaning dirt from under her fingernails with a methodical precision that made Chris's skin crawl. He had seen her fight—efficient, brutal, no wasted motion. He had seen her hesitate when they needed her most. And now, after everything with Mike, after Kacy's confession and the river, after Monta's trembling alibi, the truth had started to peel back like rotting skin.