I turned off the kitchen light.
I walked past the mirror in the hallway.
Then I stopped.
For years before the fire, mirrors had been part of my job.
I studied my skin.
My angles.
My expression.
After the fire, mirrors became enemies.
Eventually, they became ordinary again.
I looked at myself.
The left side of my face carried the map of that night.
The right side still resembled the woman in the old campaign photographs.
Both were me.
I smiled.
Then I turned off the light.
Four months after I saved Derek’s life, he packed a suitcase because he believed leaving would put distance between himself and the crime.
Instead, that suitcase was the thread that unraveled everything.
The secret calls.
The insurance policy.
The voicemail.
