The Truth Behind the mystries

a complicated love story of a writer, family, mysteries, and her stories.

I lk up at a mn he tuh my rm and scans m hrt. D nrn embedded in his xrn as h lk m u nd dwn, ng m fr injuries. I n tll b his reaction tht he n't one f th more hrdnd New Yorkers. H mght lv hr nw, but whrvr h' from, it's a l tht ddn't mltl bt th empathy out of hm.

"Are you hurt?" th stranger repeats, lkng m n the eye this tm. "N. It' nt m bld. I w standing near him whn..." I t kng. I jut saw a mn d. I w so l t him, h blood on me. I mvd t th city to b invisible, but I am rtnl nt mntrbl. It' something I'v bn wrkng on-attempting t bm as hrdnd as th concrete bnth m ft. It hn't bn wrkng ut well. I n feel vrthng I just witnessed ttlng n my

tmh.

I vr m mouth wth m hnd, but ull t away quickly when I feel mthng sticky n my lips-more bld. I lk down at m hrt: so much bld, nn f t mn. I pinch t m hrt nd pull t away from m ht, but it tk t my kn in t where th blood splatters r bgnnng to dry.

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Dettagli