Damien
Milo “Knox” Santana.
I hadn’t seen him in two years. I hadn’t wanted to see him unless it was for a reason that cut clean through old memories and left them raw. This was that reason.
He didn’t bother with a handshake. He didn’t waste words. He reached into the inside of his coat, pulled out a photograph with edges softened by too many thumbs, and held it toward me like the paper might burn him. His eyes caught mine and stayed there, hard and flat.
“She’s alive.” He said it like a fact, not a hope.
My hand hovered a second before I took the photo. The sentence landed in my gut and sat down. For a moment it felt like the room shrank the rest of the world narrowed to the face in that frame.
I had just come from the interrogation room. Emilio had finally talked after the right ki
