She wondered who the girl might belong to as she patted dirt over the shallow grave. He was in the house with his mother. The little room was fragrant with flowers, Anna herself bright, and with all the evidences of well being. Lucy sprinted to one side to avoid the crash and grabbed at Rhea’s solitary patch of yellow hair, which ripped out loosely in one decayed piece like strands of rotten corn silk. Ray did not pace, he just stood. The imbecile. It was an intimate smell, the unmistakable scent of him and another woman.
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