M3zatka -

“No,” Marta lied. “Not anymore.”

Marta understood now why her grandmother kept the comb hidden. And why the letter had come in a dead woman’s handwriting. m3zatka

Behind them, the cellar collapsed into ordinary dirt. The lampposts still held missing posters. But by morning, the women would call home, and the police would shrug, and the old women of Kazimierz would look at Marta with new respect—and new fear. “No,” Marta lied

You have the bone comb. Bring it to the cellar under the Old Butchery. Midnight. Come alone, or the last woman dies. the women would call home

You’ll need me again. They always do.