Chapter 55

Rain was gently falling outside my old bedroom window. I could recall it all so vividly, as if the memory had been sewn into the very texture of my flesh.

The gentle pounding on the windowpane, the smell of cinnamon from the candle my mom had lit in the hallway, the noise of traffic in the distance muted by the heavy curtains—it all came back with terrifying clarity.

I was ten. My bedroom was a tangled mess of pinks and creams, with too many stuffed animals, ballet dancer posters, and a ruffled canopy bed I'd pleaded for my parents to buy.

That afternoon, I'd just returned from the mall with my mother, a new dress clutched in my arms, purple as a grape and with ruffles that made me feel like a queen.

Amelia perched at the end of my bed, back straight, hands crossed demurely over her lap. Her hair was inky black, impossibly smooth, parted down the center and swept behind pale ears.

She always seemed to look a little out of place—like a china doll someone left in the incorrect room.