The name bounces around the walls of my skull like a bullet in a steel chamber.
Marcus.
We are back at the mansion. The drive home was silent. Stavros didn't speak. I didn't speak. The only sound was the hum of the engine and the rushing wind outside the bulletproof glass. Now, sitting on the edge of my bed, staring at the empty frame where my lock used to be, the silence is deafening.
I close my eyes, and I see the spy’s face. I see the desperation. I hear the scream.
He didn't scream for God. He didn't scream for his mother. He screamed for Marcus.
My hands are shaking in my lap. I clasp them together, squeezing until my knuckles turn white, trying to physically crush the tremor. I haven't heard that name in twenty years. Not since the foster homes. Not since the therapists stopped
