Molly froze with her hand on the phone. She looked the same. Oh, her hair was sorter, her makeup and clothing more colorful then the neutrals and professional styles her mum had favored in her childhood. But her face looked exactly as it had on her twelfth birthday. The day she'd been shot. The day she'd stopped being a person and become a memory.

"I..." Molly dove for the dust bin, releasing the meager contents of her stomach all over old papers and empty bottles.