Night of shades
Girls that ended up in the woods with their bodies all ripped to pieces, nothing left but their heads.
It was like something had peeled away in her brain, a tightly wrapped bandage that was coming undone.
And underneath the bandage was something red and black and pulsing, a wound that had never healed but suppurated.
But now that it was open again she didn’t know what to do. Those Mexicans couldn’t have killed Janey or the other girls. It had to be somebody else.
“But those girls were always killed in November,” she said. “Remember, remember November.”
No, that’s not how that rhyme goes. It’s “remember, remember the fifth of November,” and it’s nothing to do with America. It’s all about some
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