Whispers of the Devil
“It was only my second day on the job when it happened. I never did see her again.”
Julia stares up at me sadly. “That’s so tragic.”
“It is,” I agree. “But think about it. If I hadn’t died in 1931, then we’d never have met.”
“Silver linings,” Julia murmurs.
She doesn’t ask any more questions. Instead, she closes her eyes, clearly relishing the feel of my fingers weaving through her hair. After a while, her breathing evens out, and I realize she’s fallen asleep.
Using up the last of my strength, I slip out from under her, taking great care not to wake her. I pull a crocheted quilt off the arm of the couch and spread it over her prone form.
Bab Populer