I looked down at Rory's sleeping face—cheeks smushed against my chest, tiny mouth open in that perfect "O" of toddler oblivion, one little fist still clutching my shirt like she'd signed a lease and wasn't giving up the security deposit.
Then I looked out the window at Hollywood approaching—the billboards screaming promises nobody believed, the palm trees doing their best LA supermodel impression(tall, expensive, slightly plastic), and that specific kind of beautiful ugliness only this city can produce: glamour so thick it leaves skid marks.
We were here for Lila.
My dancer still had dreams about her old world. Not the good kind—the Dex-family kind. The kind that woke her up gasping, clawing at sheets, eyes wild with the dreams of a party where everyone knew what was going to happen to her except her.
She was still healing.
