8
DAISY
“What do you think he does with them?” I asked Dahlia. We’d met at the mercantile and had walked back to the doctor’s house—my house—and I served us both tea. I was unused to the kitchen’s organization, but I found things easily enough.
“Who? A sick saloon girl?” Dahlia stirred her tea. “It would depend on what ails her.”
“Perhaps something of a… personal nature?” I asked, stirring my own tea so I had something to do.
Dahlia’s hair was as dark as mine, but that was where our similarities ended. I was a few inches taller yet she had a more rounded figure. Ever since we were little, it had always been Dahlia and Daisy, like two peas in a pod and people often said as much. She was my best friend and had been since the very beginning.
When my family died in the fire that destroye
