“A pseudonym. A house of cards. All for a paycheck that wouldn’t even cover my dry cleaning.” He steps closer, cigar tapping against his palm. “Tell me, Ariel Ward—do they know everything at your precious paper? Does your editor sip his latte wondering why a mousy little nobody knows so much about the docks? The warehouses? The shipping manifests?”
“I’m a reporter,” I croak.
“You’re a ghost.” His laugh is bitter. “Chasing your sister’s shadow.”
The bathroom walls press closer. I see her everywhere now—in the auburn hair of strangers, in the smell of jasmine rice at the bodega, in the hollows of Leander’s cheeks that deepen whenever someone mentions “daughters” in the plural.
“Don’t.” My throat burns. “Don’t talk about her.”
“You give me no choice, neraïdoula mou!” he roars suddenly, r
