Chapter 1: The girl in the mirror
CHAPTER ONEThe Girl in the Mirror
The light above the sink had been dying for six days.
Nobody had fixed it.
Every few seconds, the fluorescent tube flickered hard enough to plunge the bathroom into darkness before buzzing itself back to life. Mikoto Ishida had complained about it twice. The first time, one of the guards told her maintenance had already been notified.
The second time, he told her to shut the fuck up.
So now Mikoto brushed her teeth beneath a light that sounded like a trapped fly and tried not to think about how badly she wanted to smash it.
11:47 P.M.
Thirteen minutes until lights-out.
Not that lights-out meant much in juvenile detention.
The hallway lights stayed on.
The security lights stayed on.
The little fluorescent strip outside her cell stayed on.
Every door opened with a buzz. Every set of keys announced somebody coming. Somebody was always coughing, crying, arguing, flushing a toilet, kicking a wall, whispering through a vent, or yelling down the tier for somebody else to shut the hell up.
There was no such thing as quiet in this place.
There were only different volumes of noise.
Mikoto leaned closer to the stainless-steel sink and aggressively scrubbed one of her back molars.
The toothbrush was terrible.
Everything here was terrible.
The toothbrush. The toothpaste. The gray soap that smelled like a hospital floor. The thin towels that somehow scratched while absorbing absolutely nothing. Even the toilet paper seemed specifically manufactured to punish criminals.
She spat into the basin.
“Fucking hate it here.”
“You hate everything.”
Mikoto glanced toward the doorway.
Nia Brooks stood there in an oversized gray detention uniform, bonnet pulled low over her forehead, arms folded.
Mikoto pointed her toothbrush at her.
“I don’t hate everything.”
“You said the pancakes pissed you off this morning.”
“They were wet.”
“They’re pancakes.”
“They were wet inside, Nia.”
Nia stared at her.
Mikoto stared back.
“That’s not how pancakes work,” Mikoto said.
Nia shook her head and disappeared into the hallway.
“You got problems, Ishida.”
“Good night to you too.”
Mikoto turned back toward the sink.
She looked like shit.
There wasn’t a nicer way to put it.
Her brown skin had gone dull beneath the fluorescent lighting, and shadows sat heavily beneath her eyes. Her dark curls had been dragged into a loose knot at the back of her head, but several thick strands had escaped around her temples.
She hadn’t slept properly in three nights.
Maybe four.
Time got slippery in here.
She’d fall asleep and wake up standing beside her bed.
Or she’d dream she was walking through the hallways.
Sometimes she’d hear people talking from rooms she had never entered.
Once she’d woken up knowing that two girls had been fighting in the laundry room on the opposite side of the building.
She hadn’t known how she knew.
She’d assumed she’d overheard it.
Then there were the headaches.
The nightmares.
The weird floating feeling.
And lately, the mirrors.
Mikoto stopped brushing.
Something had changed.
She couldn’t immediately tell what.
The bathroom looked the same.
Six sinks.
Three toilet stalls.
Two shower stalls behind plastic curtains.
Pale green tile halfway up the walls.
A drain in the center of the floor that always smelled faintly like mildew no matter how much bleach the janitorial staff dumped into it.
Nothing moved.
Still, the hairs along Mikoto’s arms slowly lifted.
Her stomach tightened.
She raised her eyes toward the mirror.
Someone was standing behind her.
Mikoto stopped breathing.
A girl.
Maybe fifteen.
Maybe younger.
It was difficult to tell.
She stood near the entrance to the bathroom wearing the same gray uniform as everybody else, except Mikoto didn’t recognize her.
That alone was strange.
There were forty-three girls in this unit.
Mikoto knew every face.
Not necessarily every name, because she didn’t care that much, but she knew who belonged here.
This girl didn’t.
Her head was lowered.
Long, dark hair hung around her face.
She wasn’t wearing shoes.
Mikoto slowly removed the toothbrush from her mouth.
She turned around.
Nobody.
The doorway stood empty.
Mikoto frowned.
“Okay.”
She looked beneath the stalls.
Nothing.
“I’m tired.”
She turned back toward the mirror.
The girl was closer.
Mikoto’s entire body went rigid.
She was standing directly behind Mikoto now.
Close enough that Mikoto should have felt her breathing.
Except the girl wasn’t breathing.
Her face was visible now.
There were tiny burst blood vessels around her eyes.
Purple bruising circled her throat.
Her lips had a faint blue-gray tint.
And her eyes…
Her eyes were cloudy.
Not looking at Mikoto.
Looking through her.
Mikoto stared.
The girl stared back.
The fluorescent light flickered.
Darkness.
Light.
The girl’s head was tilted slightly farther to the left.
Mikoto’s jaw tightened.
“No.”
She turned around again.
Empty bathroom.
Back to the mirror.
Still there.
“Absolutely not.”
The girl’s hand slowly rose.
Her fingers reached toward Mikoto’s shoulder.
Mikoto watched them approach in the reflection.
One inch.
Two.
Three.
“Bitch, what?”
The girl’s fingers stopped.
For one strange second, neither of them moved.
Then the light went out.
Mikoto whipped around.
“Yo!”
The fluorescent tube buzzed back to life.
Empty.
She looked into the mirror.
Empty.
Mikoto stood there with toothpaste foam drying at the corner of her mouth.
Her heartbeat had accelerated despite every effort to pretend otherwise.
“Nope.”
She spat into the sink.
“Nope. I’m not doing this.”
She rinsed her toothbrush, splashed water into her mouth, and grabbed the tiny plastic cup sitting beside the faucet.
“I don’t know if it’s the food, the medication, lack of sleep, or this building got asbestos in the fucking walls, but I’m not doing ghosts. That’s where I draw the line.”
She paused.
“Actually, I draw the line at wet pancakes, but ghosts are close.”
A voice crackled from the hallway.
“Ishida!”
Mikoto rolled her eyes.
There it was.
Officer Miller.
“Bathroom time is over!”
“I heard you.”
“Then move!”
Mikoto stepped into the corridor.
The girl’s unit occupied one long rectangular wing of the detention center. Cells ran along either side, painted cinderblock boxes with narrow reinforced windows and heavy doors that locked electronically at night. Cameras sat inside smoked plastic domes at every intersection.
There was nowhere to be alone.
Not really.
Even taking a shower required pretending the camera positioned outside the stall didn’t exist.
The detention center had been built sometime in the late seventies and apparently renovated exactly once since then. Everything was beige, gray, pale green, or some depressing combination of all three.
During the day, the place smelled like cafeteria grease and disinfectant.
At night, it smelled like bleach, concrete, and forty teenagers trapped together against their will.
Mikoto had been here for five months.
Five months, twelve days.
Not that she was counting.
She was absolutely counting.
Officer Miller sat behind the control desk at the intersection of the residential wing and administrative corridor.
He was a thick-necked man in his late forties with a stomach pressing against his uniform shirt and a permanently irritated expression that suggested teenagers had personally ruined his life.
Mikoto didn’t like him.
Miller didn’t like Mikoto.
Their relationship worked beautifully.
He looked up from his paperwork.
“You got a problem following instructions?”
Mikoto kept walking.
“Nope.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
“That’s unfortunate.”
Miller’s chair creaked.
“Ishida.”
Mikoto stopped.
She slowly turned around.
“What?”
“Lose the attitude.”
“Where?”
“What?”
“You said lose it. I’m asking where.”
From one of the cells came a muffled snort.
Miller looked toward the sound.
“Everybody shut it down!”
The tier went silent.
Mikoto pressed her lips together.
Miller pointed down the hall.
“Cell. Now.”
Mikoto raised both hands.
“Going.”
She turned.
“Smart-ass,” Miller muttered.
Mikoto heard him.
She kept walking.
Three more months.
That was what her public defender kept telling her.
Keep your head down.
Stop fighting.
Follow the program.
Three months, maybe less, and they could petition for placement somewhere less restrictive.
Mikoto had asked what less restrictive meant.
Apparently another group home.
Fantastic.
She’d already been through four of those.
Five, technically, if you counted the one she ran away from after eleven days.
She shoved her hands into her pockets.
Somewhere behind her, metal scraped against tile.
Mikoto stopped.
She looked back.
Miller was still at his desk.
Nothing else moved.
Then she saw her.
At the far end of the hallway.
The girl from the mirror.
Standing beneath the red EXIT sign.
Mikoto’s stomach dropped.
The girl turned a corner.
“Hey.”
Miller looked up.
“What now?”
Mikoto pointed.
“Who was that?”
“Who was what?”
“That girl.”
“What girl?”
“The girl that just went around the corner.”
Miller stared at her.
“Ishida, get in your room.”
“You didn’t see her?”
“I don’t have time for whatever game you’re playing tonight.”
Mikoto looked toward the empty hallway.
Something cold crawled along her spine.
“Right.”
She walked faster.
She reached her assigned room and pushed through the doorway.
Her roommate, Jasmine, was already curled beneath the blanket with her back toward the door.
“You awake?”
“No.”
“Helpful.”
“Go to sleep, Mikoto.”
Mikoto sat on the edge of her narrow cot.
She rubbed both hands over her face.
Maybe she really was losing it.
That possibility bothered her more than ghosts.
Her caseworker had already asked about hallucinations.
Depression.
Anxiety.
Trauma.
Nightmares.
Drug use.
Whether she heard voices other people couldn’t hear.
Mikoto had answered no.
Mostly because the quickest way to make adults stop listening to everything else you said was to tell them you saw things that weren’t there.
She kicked off her sneakers.
Then she heard it.
A whisper.
“Mikoto.”
She looked toward Jasmine.
Jasmine hadn’t moved.
“Mikoto.”
It came from the hallway.
Mikoto stood.
“Fuck me.”
She stepped toward the door.
The corridor was empty.
The strange girl stood at the far end again.
This time she was pointing.
Not at Mikoto.
Past her.
Toward the older section of the facility.
The isolation wing.
Mikoto frowned.
“What do you want?”
The girl turned and walked away.
“Hey.”
Mikoto followed.
She made it three steps before something felt wrong.
Her feet weren’t making noise.
Mikoto stopped.
She looked down.
Gray uniform.
Brown hands.
Barely visible sneakers.
Everything seemed normal.
Except the floor looked…
farther away.
She took another step.
Nothing.
No squeak of rubber against linoleum.
No pressure beneath her foot.
She swallowed.
“Miller?”
No response.
“Miller.”
Her own voice sounded strange.
Distant.
As though someone else had whispered her words from across a large room.
She walked back toward the control desk.
Miller was sitting exactly where she’d left him.
Except he wasn’t reading anymore.
His head had fallen backward against the chair.
He was asleep.
Mikoto approached.
“Yo.”
Nothing.
She waved her hand in front of his face.
“Miller.”
Nothing.
“You better not be dead too.”
She reached for his shoulder.
Her hand disappeared inside him.
Mikoto screamed.
Not loudly.
More of a sharp, involuntary:
“WHAT THE FUCK?”
She stumbled backward.
Her hand came free.
Miller continued sleeping.
Mikoto stared at her fingers.
She flexed them.
“No.”
She touched the desk.
Her fingers passed through it.
“No, no, no.”
She tried again.
Nothing.
The desk wasn’t there.
Except it was.
She could see it.
She could see Miller.
She could see the floor.
But suddenly the entire building seemed like a photograph she had somehow stepped inside.
Mikoto backed away.
Her breathing accelerated.
“Wake up.”
She slapped herself.
Or tried to.
Her palm passed through her cheek with a nauseating sensation of cold pressure.
“Wake up.”
She squeezed her eyes shut.
“Wake the fuck up.”
When she opened them, nothing changed.
Then she remembered her room.
Mikoto ran.
She didn’t know why.
Instinct.
She sprinted down the corridor, rounded the corner, and stopped outside her cell.
Jasmine was asleep.
And on the other cot—
Mikoto’s thoughts stopped.
Someone was lying in her bed.
Dark curls spread across the pillow.
Brown arm hanging over the edge.
Gray detention shirt.
Bare feet.
Mikoto stepped closer.
Her stomach dropped through the floor.
It was her.
Her own face.
Eyes closed.
Chest slowly rising.
Falling.
Rising.
Falling.
Mikoto grabbed the bars.
Her hands passed through them.
She recoiled.
“What the fuck is happening to me?”
The girl appeared inside the cell.
Standing beside Mikoto’s sleeping body.
Mikoto looked at her.
“You.”
The girl turned.
“What did you do to me?”
No answer.
“Put me back.”
The girl’s cloudy eyes shifted toward something behind Mikoto.
Mikoto followed her gaze.
The hallway stretched away into darkness.
Something pulled.
Not physically.
It caught somewhere beneath Mikoto’s ribs.
A hook without pain.
A thread tied around the center of her chest.
Mikoto grabbed at herself.
“What—”
The pull tightened.
Her body flew backward.
“WAIT!”
The hallway blurred.
Walls.
Doors.
Lights.
Miller’s desk.
Everything streaked past.
Mikoto tried grabbing the walls, but her fingers passed through concrete.
She flew through the security door.
Through another locked gate.
Through the outer wall.
And suddenly—
Cold.
Real cold.
Night air slammed into her.
Mikoto shot across the grounds.
Below her were fences.
Razor wire.
Floodlights.
Guard towers.
The basketball court.
The fenced recreation yard where she’d spent five months walking in circles and pretending she didn’t care that she couldn’t see beyond the tree line.
Now she flew over all of it.
“What the FUCK!”
She cleared the outer fence.
The detention center fell behind her.
Trees swallowed everything.
Pennsylvania forest rushed beneath her in a blur of black branches and moonlight.
Mikoto couldn’t tell whether she was falling or flying.
She had no sense of weight.
No stomach dropping.
No wind against her skin.
She was simply moving.
Then—
Stop.
Mikoto slammed downward.
Her feet touched moss.
She staggered.
“Jesus fucking Christ.”
“You are remarkably loud.”
Mikoto froze.
Someone stood beneath an oak tree.
A woman.
She looked completely absurd.
Not because there was anything inherently strange about her, but because nobody should look that composed standing in the woods behind a juvenile detention facility at midnight.
Her dark hair was pinned neatly away from her face. A long, fitted coat fell nearly to her ankles, black fabric embroidered with delicate silver patterns Mikoto couldn’t identify.
In one gloved hand she held a narrow silver-handled umbrella.
It wasn’t raining.
The woman regarded Mikoto with calm interest.
Mikoto looked behind herself.
Nothing.
She pointed at her own chest.
“You talking to me?”
“Yes.”
Mikoto’s eyes narrowed.
“You can see me?”
“Quite clearly.”
“How?”
The woman tilted her head.
“You’re projecting.”
“I’m what?”
“Projecting.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
“It answers it precisely. Your inability to understand the answer is a separate problem.”
Mikoto stared at her.
“Okay. I already don’t like you.”
A faint smile touched the woman’s mouth.
“I suspected as much.”
“Who are you?”
“Lady Miura.”
Mikoto waited.
Miura waited.
“That’s it?”
“What more were you expecting?”
“I don’t know. A last name?”
“Miura will suffice.”
“Okay, Miura-Will-Suffice. Why am I dead?”
“You aren’t.”
“I just put my hand through a man’s chest.”
“An improvement, I’m sure.”
Mikoto blinked.
Was that a joke?
Miura’s face offered absolutely no confirmation.
“My body is back there.”
“Yes.”
“And I’m here.”
“Yes.”
“And apparently I can walk through walls.”
“Yes.”
Mikoto threw her hands out.
“Then explain!”
Miura studied her.
For the first time, something changed in her expression.
Not amusement.
Recognition.
“You have her temper.”
Mikoto went still.
“Whose?”
Miura’s eyes met hers.
“Kaede’s.”
The forest seemed to become quieter.
Mikoto’s arms slowly lowered.
“What did you say?”
“Your mother. Kaede Ishida.”
Mikoto’s expression hardened.
“Don’t.”
“I haven’t said anything offensive.”
“You don’t know my mother.”
“I knew her considerably longer than you did.”
Mikoto moved before thinking.
One moment she was standing several feet away.
The next she was directly in front of Miura.
“Who the fuck are you?”
Miura didn’t move.
Didn’t flinch.
Didn’t even tighten her grip around the umbrella.
Interesting.
Most adults reacted when Mikoto got in their face.
Miura merely looked down at her.
“I told you.”
“No. You gave me a name. That’s not the same thing.”
Something almost approving flickered behind Miura’s eyes.
“My name is Lady Miura. I am an Esper. So was your mother.”
Mikoto stared.
“A what?”
“Esper.”
“That’s not a thing.”
“You are standing outside your physical body.”
“I could be dreaming.”
“You aren’t.”
“Hallucinating.”
“You aren’t.”
“Having a psychotic break.”
“Possible, generally speaking. Not presently.”
Mikoto glared.
Miura continued.
“You are experiencing astral projection. Your consciousness has separated from your physical body and manifested through your soul.”
Mikoto stared at her for several seconds.
Then laughed.
Not because it was funny.
Because the alternative was screaming.
“My soul.”
“Yes.”
“Okay.”
Mikoto nodded slowly.
“My soul flew through a prison wall.”
“Yes.”
“And now I’m talking to Mary Poppins in the woods.”
Miura’s eyebrow lifted.
Mikoto gestured at the umbrella.
“Come on.”
Miura looked briefly at it.
“I happen to like this umbrella.”
“Of course you do.”
Mikoto paced away, pressing her palms against her temples.
“This isn’t happening.”
“It has been happening for years.”
Mikoto stopped.
“What?”
“The dreams in which you wander outside your bedroom. The sensation of falling shortly before sleep. Waking in locations you don’t remember walking to. Hearing conversations taking place beyond ordinary range.”
Mikoto slowly turned around.
Miura watched her carefully.
“The headaches,” she added.
Mikoto’s face changed.
“How do you know that?”
“Because your ability is uncontrolled.”
“How do you know about me?”
Silence.
Mikoto stepped closer.
“How do you know about my mom?”
Miura said nothing.
“And what the fuck is an Esper?”
“Those are several questions.”
“Answer one.”
“Eventually.”
Mikoto laughed once.
“Yeah. Fuck you.”
She turned away.
“Your father possessed the same gift.”
Mikoto stopped.
That did it.
She slowly looked over her shoulder.
“My father?”
Miura’s expression remained unreadable.
Mikoto walked back toward her.
“You know who my father is?”
“Yes.”
“What was his name?”
Miura said nothing.
“What’s his name?”
“Not tonight.”
Mikoto’s face twisted.
“You bring up my dead mother, bring up some man nobody has ever told me shit about, drag me out of my fucking body into the woods, and now you wanna play mysterious?”
“I didn’t drag you here.”
“Then who did?”
Miura looked toward the trees.
Mikoto followed her gaze.
The dead girl stood between them.
Mikoto jumped.
“Jesus!”
Miura glanced at her.
“Remarkably loud.”
“Shut up.”
Mikoto stared at the girl.
She looked different beneath the moonlight.
Less monstrous.
Younger.
The bruising around her throat was still visible.
Her bare feet were dirty.
Her expression wasn’t frightening anymore.
It was sad.
Mikoto’s anger faltered.
“Who is she?”
Miura’s voice softened.
“A question worth answering.”
“You can see her too?”
“Yes.”
“Is she…”
Mikoto hesitated.
She couldn’t believe she was about to say it.
“Is she actually dead?”
“Yes.”
Mikoto looked at the girl again.
“How?”
Miura’s gaze remained on the spirit.
“That is something I would like you to discover.”
Mikoto frowned.
“What?”
“She died inside that facility.”
“When?”
“Some time ago.”
“What’s her name?”
“I won’t tell you.”
Mikoto whipped around.
“Why the fuck not?”
“Because I am not interested in giving you answers.”
“Then why am I here?”
“Because I am interested in discovering whether you can find them.”
Mikoto stared at her.
Miura stepped forward.
The silver tip of her umbrella pressed gently into the moss.
“The official record states that this girl took her own life.”
Mikoto looked toward the spirit.
The girl didn’t move.
Miura continued.
“I do not believe the official record.”
“Why?”
“That is another answer you will have to earn.”
Mikoto scoffed.
“Lady, I don’t know what kind of Sherlock Holmes shit you think I’m about to do, but I’m locked up.”
“Indeed.”
“I can’t investigate anything.”
“You left your cell tonight.”
“My soul left my cell.”
“Precisely.”
Mikoto opened her mouth.
Closed it.
Miura’s faint smile returned.
“You can pass through locked doors. You can travel unseen. With sufficient concentration, you can hear and observe without being detected.”
“I don’t even know how I got out.”
“Then I suggest you learn.”
Mikoto looked toward the dead girl.
“Why me?”
Miura’s expression changed.
The amusement disappeared.
“Because she chose you.”
Mikoto looked back at the girl.
For the first time, the spirit raised her eyes directly toward Mikoto.
Something in that look made Mikoto uncomfortable.
Not fear.
Recognition.
A loneliness Mikoto understood far too well.
She immediately looked away.
“No.”
Miura’s eyebrow rose.
“No?”
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“That dramatic shit. ‘She chose you.’ I’m not chosen. I’m not saving anybody. I got my own problems.”
“Obviously.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
Mikoto crossed her arms.
“Then find somebody else.”
Miura studied her for a moment.
“Very well.”
Mikoto hadn’t expected that.
Miura turned away.
“Wait.”
Miura stopped.
Mikoto looked annoyed with herself.
“What happens if I do?”
Miura glanced over her shoulder.
“If you do what?”
“Figure it out.”
“The girl’s death?”
“Yes.”
Miura turned fully toward her.
“I imagine the truth will have consequences.”
“Not what I meant.”
“I know.”
Mikoto’s eyes narrowed.
Miura smiled.
God, Mikoto hated this woman.
“What do I get?”
“There it is.”
“Don’t judge me. I’m in jail.”
“Juvenile detention.”
“Same shit with worse food.”
Miura considered her.
Then she said:
“Your freedom.”
Mikoto’s expression emptied.
The forest suddenly felt very still.
“What?”
“If you determine what happened to this girl and provide sufficient evidence to prove it, I will arrange your release from state custody.”
Mikoto stared.
“You can’t do that.”
“I can.”
“No, you can’t.”
“I assure you, Mikoto, there are very few things I tell people I can do without already knowing precisely how I intend to accomplish them.”
Something about the way she said it made Mikoto believe her.
That frightened her almost as much as everything else tonight.
“You’re serious.”
“Entirely.”
Mikoto looked back toward the girl.
The spirit remained between the trees.
Waiting.
Five months, twelve days.
Three more months if she behaved.
Then maybe another placement.
Another social worker.
Another house.
Another adult promising that this one would be different.
Mikoto looked at Miura.
“And after?”
“After what?”
“After I solve it.”
Miura’s eyes gleamed.
“Then you and I will have a considerably longer conversation.”
“About?”
“Your mother.”
Mikoto’s jaw tightened.
“Your father.”
Her fingers curled into fists.
“And what, precisely, you are.”
Mikoto stared at her.
There it was.
The hook.
Miura knew it too.
Mikoto hated that she knew it.
“That’s manipulative as hell.”
“Yes.”
Mikoto blinked.
“You’re not even gonna deny it?”
“No.”
“Wow.”
“I find dishonesty about one’s intentions rather exhausting.”
“You’re literally refusing to tell me half of what you know.”
“Privacy and dishonesty are not synonymous.”
Mikoto stared at her.
“I really don’t like you.”
“You’ve mentioned that.”
The dead girl took one silent step closer.
Mikoto looked at her.
The bruises.
The bare feet.
The gray uniform.
Somebody had been wearing that uniform before Mikoto ever arrived.
Somebody had been locked behind those same doors.
And now she couldn’t leave.
Mikoto exhaled through her nose.
“If I find out somebody killed her…”
Miura waited.
Mikoto looked directly at her.
“You better not expect me to handle that shit nicely.”
For the first time that night, Lady Miura smiled properly.
Not warmly.
Not kindly.
Almost knowingly.
“My dear,” she said, “if I wanted someone nice, I would not have come looking for you.”
The forest vanished.
Mikoto slammed back into her body.
She bolted upright with a violent gasp.
Her hands grabbed the thin mattress beneath her.
Solid.
Her arms.
Solid.
Her face.
Solid.
“Fuck.”
Jasmine shot upright on the neighboring cot.
“What the hell?”
Mikoto sucked in air.
“Nothing.”
“You just screamed.”
“I didn’t scream.”
“You screamed.”
“I gasped aggressively.”
“What?”
“Go back to sleep.”
Jasmine stared at her.
“You are so fucking weird.”
“Good night, Jasmine.”
Jasmine muttered something and rolled over.
Mikoto sat there.
Her heart hammered.
Sweat dampened the back of her shirt.
The fluorescent light outside the room buzzed.
For several seconds, nothing happened.
Then Mikoto slowly looked toward the narrow reinforced window in the door.
The dead girl stood on the other side.
Watching her.
Mikoto stared back.
Neither moved.
Finally Mikoto whispered:
“All right.”
The girl tilted her head.
Mikoto swung her feet onto the cold floor.
“Who the fuck are you?”
END CHAPTER ONE
