She separated from the shadows and beams of occasional streetlights, a waif with smudged eyeliner and fading painted lips. A lacy top with spaghetti straps, a black skirt whispering from thighs to ankles, feet bare despite the cold, shoes grasped casually in one hand, a cigarette smoldering in the other, she moved with the deliberate focus of a cheetah slinking across an open plain. Michael did his best to recall her recent past—greater innocence, self-conscious smiles, blushing cheeks, fingers curling, playing with her then dark blonde hair. Before this version had emerged. Before she’d gone mad.
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