“Elena?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

“Yes,” I said, sliding into the booth opposite her.

She looked past me toward the door, then toward Marisol at the counter.

“Is she with you?” the woman asked, nodding toward Marisol.

“She is my attorney,” I said. “She is here to protect me.”

The woman took a deep breath, her shoulders dropping slightly.

“Good,” she said. “Because Derek has people watching you.”

She reached into her purse and pulled out a thick manila folder.

She didn’t open it. She kept her hand flat on top of it, as if holding down something dangerous.

“My name is not important,” she said. “But twelve years ago, my name was Sarah.”

She reached up and slowly took off her sunglasses.

The skin around her left eye was tight and slightly discolored.

It was a scar.

A burn scar, faded but unmistakable, just like the ones on my arm.

I stared at the pale, puckered skin around her eye.

The texture was identical to the tight skin on my own forearm.

It was the signature of a fire that had burned too hot, too fast.