Annabel thought, and thought again. ‘After all the threats you’ve made, that is hardly fair. Paris, 18. Lucy sprinted to one side to avoid the crash and grabbed at Rhea’s solitary patch of yellow hair, which ripped out loosely in one decayed piece like strands of rotten corn silk. She could not move. The sun was setting in spectacular multicolored streams beyond Whitefield Park. It was still raining heavily, and profoundly dark. Then, if you weren’t looking, he’d get five feet closer.
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