“You wanted to be seen,” the reflection said, with Desirée’s voice but no tremor. “Now I’ll be seen for you.”
Outside, the new Desirée Dul stepped into the rain, tilted her face up, and laughed. She was loud and bright and terrible.
Desirée almost filed it as evidence. That was her job. But the letters D.D. echoed inside her chest. She held the mirror up.
Dee tried to scream, but the sound came out soft. Muffled. Dull.
The reflection’s lips moved, but no sound came from the glass. Instead, a sensation bloomed in Desirée’s throat: hunger . Not for food. For noise. For color. For the sharp bite of a winter wind and the sting of a slap and the taste of cheap red wine drunk from the bottle at two in the morning.