It was a late afternoon drenched in gold. The kind of light that softened everything—the outlines of buildings, the sound of the water, even the heaviness Lila hadn’t known she’d been carrying all day.
She had been organizing a drawer in the bedroom of the Greek villa, seeking for nothing in particular. The room still smelled faintly of sea air and sandalwood, the perfume of Regan’s cologne clinging to the linen. When her fingers brushed upon something stuck at the back of the drawer—a tattered leather-bound notebook—her breath caught.
The notebook was hers, older than the past two identities she’d worn, filled with bits from nights she scarcely remembered. Pages of restless thoughts, sketches of hideouts, coded drop points… and a somewhat yellowed folded sheet of paper towards the rear.
