Eleven
Grace sat on the sofa in her relentlessly pink cell with her head in her hands. It had been at least three hours since the interrogation had ended, and she’d been sent back to this awful room. Her lunch plate had come but she hadn’t touched it. The falafel had made her heart hurt, as it reminded her of better days, when she’d freely moved about the city with Heron.
She wanted out of this room. She wanted her life back. She would even settle for the version of it where she was a widow with the immense burden of her anger and grief over what she had now. She would take that even over the perfect, ideal life she’d had six months ago, when her son was still alive. When her husband was still a man she thought she knew.
She leaned back against the sofa and covered her face with her han
