The coffee in the FBI holding room tasted like burnt cardboard and regret, but Elodie drank it anyway.
She was sitting at a metal table in a room that was entirely beige. Beige walls, beige floor, beige two-way mirror. The only color in the room was her: the black leather jacket, the silver-laced boots, and the ruby-red lipstick that was now smudged at the corners of her mouth.
She had been here for four hours.
She had told the story three times. Once to Agent Vance. Once to a stenographer. Once to a lawyer from the Department of Justice who looked like he was about to have a heart attack.
She told them about the safe. She told them about the notebook. She told them about the dates on the tapes matching the dates of the disasters.
She did not tell them about the Snow Globe. She did no
