DIRTY ANGELS
Elizabeth sat beside her, one hand resting limply on Isla’s shoulder, her own posture slack, her gaze unfocused as though she were present only in body and nowhere else.
“Mari,” Isla said, her voice lifting with a strange, misplaced brightness as she spotted her, a smile stretching across her face that didn’t belong in a room like this. “You came.”
“I’m here,” Marisol said, crossing the room quickly, dropping down in front of her, reaching for her hands and finding them warm but unsteady, her grip loose, her reactions slow. “I’m right here.”
Isla laughed softly, a sound that snagged in the air and didn’t land properly, her fingers curling around Marisol’s with a delay that felt wrong.