hair in the faucet and push it back from my face. Holding myself upright at the counter, I use both hands to steady myself. I stare in the mirror.
How can I ever face them again? Has my entire life been a lie?
I lunge for the toilet and it starts all over again.
After I’ve cleaned myself off a second time, there is a rap on the door. My father steps inside the cramped bathroom. His eyes are moist.
“We know you need time,” he says. “We never knew how to tell you, or when.”
“Or if,” I say bitingly.
His large hand crosses in front of my face. Through my tangled wet hair, I watch him place a sealed, faded folder from the safe on the counter. It’s labeled in Cyrillic.
“When you’re ready, read this. It will help you understand.”
I glare at him. “Who are my parents?”
His gray eyes don’t leave mine. His skin is pallid.
“Where are they?” I demand.
He turns to leave the bathroom and stops with his hand resting on the doorknob. “We love you, Sophia. With every fiber of our beings, we love you. Unconditionally.”
His words light a fire in my veins, scorching my skin.
I throw the folder at him, screaming, “You’ve lied to me my whole life!”
My father’s eyes are wet and pained. How can he be hurting right now? He chose to keep this information from me. He’s the one who lied.
He glances at my backpack on the floor, then his eyes resettle on mine. “Just read it.” His voice is unusually raspy, like his throat has been grated by sandpaper.
He closes the door behind him.
I don’t read it.
Time passes. I stand, numb.
Soon, the intercom announces that the train is approaching Hütteldorf, a few kilometers southwest of Vienna. Beyond the small window, the countryside has transformed into rows of Bavarian half-timbered buildings adjacent to modern complexes of concrete.
I glance at my watch—22:00.
My decision isn’t a decision at all; it is a reaction. An expulsion.
I stuff the folder into my backpack and turn on the tap. I flush the toilet again, hoping the noise will give me time.
I lift the escape hatch on the bathroom window. Hesitating, I wait for a sound—no siren blares. Cold air and snow whip me. With my backpack slung securely over my shoulders, I wriggle through the window and land on the grated platform at the back of the train.
Years ago my father instructed me how to fall while skiing, skydiving, horseback riding. It’s all the same—curl, and land rolling.
Standing on the platform, I throw the Longchamp backpack as far out to the side as I can, then I leap from the back of the train.
CHAPTER 51
Landing in a rolling mess on the earth, I wince at the impact. Eleven days after the attack at Aksel’s, my wounds aren’t yet healed. Nonetheless a quick glance to my thigh assures me—no blood.
I make it to my feet, strap on my backpack, and dart down the embankment. Scanning the stars, I head east, toward the dim lights of town.
Before I have time to fully process what I’ve done, I cross the dark, manicured grounds of a park surrounding an old castle—the sign reads Schloss Wolfersberg.
I run along a lamplit street, ducking into an alley every time headlights near me.
I don’t exactly pass for a jogger—I am carrying a backpack and wearing black boots over my leggings. The last thing I want is for a police officer to stop me.
Betrayal. Devastation. Dozens of languages and I can’t think of a strong enough word to express what I feel.
I reach a row of mustard-yellow painted buildings and enter a marble-laid plaza with a fountain in the center and a cathedral towering over it—Hütteldorf is a typical Austrian town.
I walk beside a stone wall. All sense of clarity has been stripped from me. My stomach churns, my hands quiver uncontrollably.
Several restaurants and cafés surrounding the plaza are still open. I enter a café with iron chairs and tables set outside, shielded from the snow by a dark green striped awning. I sit down near one of the heat lamps and order hot cider.
I set my backpack on the chair beside me and pull out the folder.
Do I even want to read it?
Reaching inside, I retrieve two sheets of paper stapled together, carbon copies, yellowed at the edges. An envelope is stapled to both. I detach the envelope and set it on the table.
The top page is a report regarding strategic weapons intelligence—names, departments, drop zones, scientific data, and other details