Buried Betrayal on Eight Hundred Acres 34

to make, emails to answer, traffic to survive.

But now I saw.

The collar of Sofi’s sweater was damp. Not with spilled water. With something darker, something that had dried and been wet again. When she shifted the backpack higher against her chest, the sleeve slipped just enough for me to see the mark beneath.

Purple.

Deep.

Wrong.

“Camila,” I asked slowly,continue reading …