OLIVIA
Rain lashed against the living room window of the Upper West Side apartment, distorting the bright yellow glow of the streetlamps below. For the first time in what felt like a lifetime, the noise outside did not belong to armed guards patrolling a gravel driveway. It was just the steady, rhythmic hum of New York City traffic.
My cousin Michael sat across from me at his small wooden dining table. He stared at my face as if he were looking at an apparition. A cardboard box of lukewarm pizza rested between us, the grease soaking into the white paper napkins.
"You look like a ghost, Olivia," Michael said, his voice barely rising above a whisper. He reached across the table and wrapped his hands around my trembling fingers.
"I feel like one," I admitted.
Taking a slow breath, I let
