The paper trail is damning, but papers are cold. They are just numbers and routing codes stored on a server in Cyprus. They don't bleed. They don't scream.
I close my eyes, begging for oblivion. My body is exhausted, battered by the training and the terror, but my mind is a hive of buzzing wires.
Finally, the darkness takes me.
But it’s not peaceful. It’s a drop. A sudden, sickening plummet into the past.
The air changes. It’s not the sterile, recycled oxygen of the fortress. It’s heavy. Humid. Scented with jasmine and damp earth.
I am three years old.
I’m standing in the garden of the Kostas mansion. The grass is wet and cold against my bare feet. I’m wearing my white nightgown and the pink satin ribbon in my hair.
I shouldn't be out here. Nanny said to stay in bed. But I saw a lig
