Olivia gasps, twisting around so fast she hits her head against the same wall she’s defacing with her drawings. When she sees me, she stumbles to her feet, holding her pathetic little pencil like a weapon.
“What have you done to my walls?”
She stares at me for a moment. Then her jaw loosens and that familiar bratty fire flares in her eyes. “I improved them.”
“Is that what you call it?”
My eyes latch on to the drawing of myself next to the bed. She’s drawn me behind an uncanny image of Pyotr. The expression on my face is less than flattering.
I make a quick scan of the room, noticing other images, other characters. Some of them I recognize; most of them I don’t. I ignore the speech bubbles—no good can come of getting riled up about her juvenile jabs—and turn back to face Olivia.
“You’
