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Summary
“What do you mean?” She asked, eyebrows furrowing, a crease formed in the middle of them.
Clea opened the notebook and flipped through the pages, and without looking up, responded to Camille’s question. “Mother painted herself a copy of Verso, not the real one, obviously, his body is still in the ground, but a version of him is in the painting.”
Camille exhaled a sharp breath, making almost an animalistic sound that made Clea look right at her and step forward. She tilted her head and grabbed her forearm. “No.” She stated, coldly. “I can’t have you jumping into their delusions of grandeur. I need you here.”