Arianna
The woman in the photographs wasn’t what scared me.
It was how easily she’d done it.
I stood over the conference table staring at six different faces that technically belonged to the same person, and a cold uneasiness crawled beneath my skin. Blonde in one picture. Brunette in another. Twenty-something crossing Main Street with a shopping bag tucked beneath her arm. Forty-something sitting outside the coffee shop. An older woman standing near the pharmacy with sunglasses covering half her face. If not for the thin silver bracelet wrapped around her wrist in every image, nobody would’ve connected them.
Nobody except another shapeshifter.
Braxton picked up one photograph, studying it with the expression of a man who was used to solving problems and had just discovered a problem
