When Aracelia reappears, I limp back around to face her once more.
“You’re the woman who gave Esme a reading,” I say. It sounds like an accusation.
“I did,” Aracelia agrees. “I also dabble in midwifery and natural cures.”
I glance down at the green goo that seems to be oozing out from under my bandages. “I need to get this s**t off me.”
She shakes her head. “I wouldn’t. It needs time to do its’ job. And you need to rest.”
“I can’t f*****g rest,” I bite back. “I need to get Esme and—”
I freeze. My eyes fly to her face, searching for signs that she might be lying. She stares back at me, unblinking.
“What did you say?” I grit.
“She left a week ago,” Aracelia replies. “She took the car and drove off.”
She didn’t say it, but I can hear the underlying message nonetheless: She’s not comi
