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The slender bones shift underneath his skin; they form quick, sharp outlines and melt back beneath muscle and pigment. Mona Lisa's smile wavers with each passing bone, as if she's as unhappy at his situation as he is. Kate probably has the same painted smile. He wonders if she's exhausted, too.
Peter nods towards his hand, finally breaking his silence. His grin is predatory, all teeth and sarcasm. “I thought the Mona Lisa was in Paris.”
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