Sabrina’s hand moved toward Michael’s arm, but he shook her off without thinking, as if his body knew she was also part of this mess.
I reached into my clutch and pulled out the note.
The blue ink looked almost pretty against the ivory paper.
“Congratulations,” I read, voice steady, “you finally have a haircut that matches your age.”
A sound rose from somewhere, half gasp, half laugh that died too quickly.
My voice lowered. “This was pinned to my pillow when I woke up this morning. My hair was shaved while I slept.”
