“They buried me once. Next time, I’ll be the one holding the shovel.”

The wind off the coast smelled like metal and salt sharp enough to sting.

I’d missed that sting. It reminded me I was still alive, even if I wasn’t supposed to be.

The world thought Tatiana Chase had killed herself in a holding cell three months ago.

The world had already moved on.

Headlines had burned my name, eulogies were whispered behind expensive glasses of champagne, and Charles Black had cleaned his hands of ...