circled her waist. One hand lay on his shoulder. A hand that possessed only three knobby fingers.
“I’m such a fuckup,” Bastarache mumbled. “Such a fuckup.”
“Shhh,” the woman said. “I know you love me.”
A shaft of fast-dropping sun flamed the dark curls framing the woman’s head. Slowly, she raised her chin.
Agonizing realization curdled my innards.
The woman’s cheeks and forehead were lumpy and hard. Her upper lip stretched to a nose that was asymmetrically concave.
“Evangeline,” I said, overwhelmed with emotion.
The woman looked my way. Something flashed in her eyes.
“I’ve seen the Queen of England,” she rasped, chest heaving, tears snaking serpentine trails through her flesh.
Contents
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
