Whoever they are, she thinks, walking into the bathroom and rubbing a hand tiredly over her eyes, they're good. Not street crims. More high-end, despite the down-at-the-heel boots and smart-assed mouths.
She jerks away from the sink as the faucet comes on, hot water gushing over the porcelain. In a second, all the taps along the row of sinks are spouting, steam rising to cloud the long mirror, filling the room with warm fog.
Leaning forward, she wipes the fog from the glass. Behind her, the girl stares, mouth open, the red slit across her throat gaping.
The dead girl.