A. E. Lowan

Winter Mulcahy thought the girl by the necklace rack was maybe eleven, probably twelve. She had a bruise peeking out just beneath the collar of her oversized coat, fingermarks if Winter was any judge, and she was an excellent judge of abuse. The girl was heavy in that way that said weight would follow her throughout her life, but she moved easily through the store, caramel eyes flickering constantly towards Winter from behind too-large glasses. The girl was stealing. That wasn’t unusual, though. Homeless kids often stole from the stores in the Historical District, trying to fill empty pockets and Read More …