The marshals showed up at six in the morning on Saturday. They didn’t look like the kind of men you’d want to mess with, even though they were dressed up like movers. Plain shirts, ball caps, the sort of casual that still carried a weight underneath it. You could tell they were armed even without seeing the guns.
They gave us thirty minutes. Thirty minutes to pick out what parts of our old lives would fit inside two suitcases. Thirty minutes to close the door on everything that had been ours as Adrian and Isla Cross.
Agent Sarah Mitchell did most of the talking. Calm, clipped voice, like she’d walked other people through this exact moment a hundred times before.
“From this point forward,” she said, sliding manila folders into our hands, “you are David and Elena Martinez. Married three y
