The Watcher (Anna Strong Chronicles #3) - Page 44
A WOMAN IS LOOKING DOWN AT ME. She's smiling.
She'd be pleasant looking if it weren't for the blood that mats her hair and streaks her face.
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Blood? Whose blood?
Why can't I remember?
A memory cuts like a strobe light into my head. It pulses in black-and-white relief. A body. Ravaged. Torn. Blood everywhere.
Instinctively, I raise my hands. They are flaked with dried blood. My nails are embedded with tissue.
The groan starts deep in my gut and spews forth in a wail of despair.
What have I done?
Why can't I remember?