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where she was, cooling coffee forgotten. She stared at her milky reflection in the cup, at her sleek new haircut, the graceful press of her manicured hands on the ivory china. Her nails were polished nearly the same color. Then she looked out over her misty city, and thought again how fortunate she was.
    She set her coffee cup back down on the glass table with a muted chink. Then she went to her closet and opened the double doors. She wasn’t much of a shopper—she had no affinity, let alone interest, for it—so most of the clothes inside had been chosen by Gwen.
    A small trunk sat in the corner, concealed behind her long coats and wraps. She knelt on the rug and pushed aside her black overcoat with one hand so she could pull the trunk into the light with the other. She hadn’t so much as acknowledged the trunk since she’d filled it and closed it ten years ago. She hadn’t bothered locking it, as there was nothing within worth taking. The keys still dangled from the lock, the combination set at triple zero. She pressed open the clips on either side, and found them stiff with disuse.
    Inside lay neat piles of frayed but clean clothing, on top of which perched a much-creased spiral notebook with a green cover.
    She spent a precious moment smoothing the cover. Then she opened it, flipped through the pages filled top to bottom, margin to margin, with Stephen’s precise writing. There were a few maps and drawings, outlined in precise boxes. She could always tell when he was brainstorming or simply filling time while his unconscious disentangled whatever knotty problem he’d been trying to solve. There were little thumbnail sketches randomly interspersed throughout: birds in flight and patches of the cityscape and whimsical Taras, over and over.
    Of all of Stephen’s notebooks, this was the only one left. The last few pages, curling at the corners, were empty. The page before was filled a little over halfway, trailing off midsentence, his normally neat handwriting turned to an untidy, crooked scrawl. He’d been so sick. Tension balled a fist into her gut just thinking about it.
    She put the notebook aside and began pulling out clothes appropriate for the job ahead. Fitting into them again shouldn’t be an issue, as she didn’t eat much and spent much of her days training. She extracted jeans, a powder-blue thermal shirt, and a black “I-heart-NY” t-shirt. She dug into the bottom and found her stained and somewhat ratty-looking work boots.
    She got dressed.
    Stephen wasn’t the only one waiting for her in the parking garage, next to the open side door of the Dante Foundation transport van. Curious faces peeked out at her—the van was late leaving for its rounds, and now they knew why.
    Gwen smiled when she saw her in her old getup. “That takes me back,” she said.
    Tara demurred to answer, instead turning to Stephen. “You have some things for me?”
    Stephen held several items for her in his hands, all in a neat pile. First was the Dante Foundation hoodie of red and gray, along with the matching ball cap. Then he handed her an earpiece. She clipped it on and arranged her hair to cover it.
    â€œI’m sorry there can’t be more,” he said.
    â€œIt’s all right. I’ve had to be resourceful before.”
    Stephen smiled. “Yes, you have.”
    Gwen put her hands on Tara’s shoulders. “Your training has prepared you for this. But be careful nonetheless.”
    â€œI will.”
    Tara got in the van, ignoring the stares. She was going back to the beginning.

Chapter Three
    The ride to Central Park up Fifth Avenue drew Tara into the past, only in reverse. St. Patrick’s Cathedral was, as always, packed. People spilled from the front doors, pooling out over the steps and into the street like water from an overflowing bathtub. There were two Dante Foundation trucks parked at the curb, lost soap around which the water