I watch in sick fascination as her face starts to turn red. “You have the power to make this stop, Serafina. Who are you and what are you doing with Angel’s shirt and pictures?”
Our gazes lock for a dreaded moment, every emotion imaginable washes across her beautiful face. Those perfect lips arch downward and the bottom one trembles. “It’s me, Caleb.”
Her answer throws me off. “Who?”
“Angel,” she says, over and over again. “It’s me. I swear it.”
I give her a sideways look, searching the depths of her eyes. She’s a fucking liar. Angel has been dead for six years. I raise my hand . . .
“It is an ever-fixed mark that looks on tempests and is never shaken,” she whispers. “Never shaken,” she repeats in a voice I haven’t heard in forever. Shakespeare. Angel’s first love in literature. That specific sonnet. Those special words, the ones carved on the bottom of her memorial bench.
I want to destroy her.
