Dionne
Callum came back from the grocery run and set a piece of paper on the table without a word.
I looked at it. Then I picked it up.
It was a flier. At the top, in bold: MISSING. HIGHLY DANGEROUS. ROGUE SERVANT.
Below that, there was a photograph. It was a side profile of me. Taken from a distance, slightly grainy, the kind of shot that came from a long lens positioned at an angle. I was looking at something off to the left of frame, completely unaware, and my hair fell loose around my face.
And my neck was turned just enough that the mark was completely visible. Bright and ugly and unmistakeable, sitting on my skin like a brand, like an answer to every question anyone might have about what I was and who I belonged to.
I stared at the photograph for a long time before turning back to Callum.
"Where did you find this?"
"Pharmacy window." He pulled out a chair and sat down. "There were up to ten of them between the grocery store and the car."
