CHAPTER 4As Amy Gold settled into her swivel chair and donned a pair of reading glasses, she reviewed her conversation with William Henry. Something nagged at her like a facial tic. When she envisioned her position in the cubicle facing her mentor, it all came back to her, and she immediately wished it had not.
She was twenty-two years old, still in training at Quantico, but on temporary leave to attend the funeral of her great aunt, Angelique's grandmother. She recalled the sea of somber faces, some familiar, others not—a gentle press of the hand here, a nod of welcome there. The flower adorned casket lay against the far wall. Auntie Gilda Moskowitz, a h*******t survivor, succumbed to cancer the day before. She was to be buried today, but, contrary to Jewish tradition, little celebration
