Chapter 2

Cora crossed the flooded street and pushed open the heavy, creaking door of her rundown apartment building.

She shook the freezing rain from her jacket and started the climb up the dim, narrow stairwell to the third floor. Her wet sneakers squelched on the dirty concrete.

She pulled her keys from her pocket. Her fingers were stiff from the cold. She unlocked the door and stepped inside. Total, suffocating darkness greeted her.

Cora peeled off her soaked hoodie and dropped it on the floor. She walked straight into the tiny, cramped bathroom.

She turned on the faucet. The pipes groaned. She gripped the edges of the porcelain sink with both hands, leaning her weight on her arms. She gasped for air, her chest heaving.

Slowly, she lifted her head. She forced herself to look into the cracked mirror. She stared at the ruined, dark red flesh on the right side of her face.

The memory of the little girl's scream echoed in her ears. Karen White's disgusted eyes flashed behind her eyelids. Her eyes burned with unshed tears.

Cora turned the water to hot. She plunged her hands under the stream, grabbed a bar of cheap soap, and began to scrub her face.

She rubbed the scar tissue violently. Her skin turned bright red. It burned, but she couldn't stop. She scrubbed until her fingers ached, desperately trying to wash away the feeling of being dirty, of being a monster.

When she finally stopped, she dried her face with a rough towel. She walked into her bedroom, collapsed onto the narrow mattress, and stared blankly at the water stains on the ceiling.

The next morning, her alarm blared at six. Cora moved like a machine. She got out of bed and pulled on a thick, dark turtleneck sweater.

She brushed her long, dark hair forward, carefully arranging it to fall over the right side of her face. She swung her heavy backpack over her shoulder and left the apartment.

She rode the packed subway to the New York University archaeological research center. She kept her head down the entire ride.

When she walked into the main lobby, she stopped. The janitorial staff was frantically polishing the glass entrance doors.

The usually cluttered hallways were spotless. Someone had even laid down non-slip mats over the tiled floors.

Cora frowned. She adjusted her backpack straps and walked down the stairs to her basement laboratory.

She had just set her bag on her stool when her coworker, Lena Sullivan, slid over. Lena was holding a steaming cup of coffee.

"Did you see the lobby?" Lena whispered, her eyes wide with excitement. "There's a massive VIP coming to inspect the facility today."

Cora pulled a pair of blue latex gloves from the dispenser. "Which VIP?" she asked, not really caring.

"Word is, it's the heir to a massive conglomerate," Lena said, waving her free hand. "Billionaire status. They fund half the university."

Cora lost interest immediately. She turned her back to Lena and flicked on the bright LED light of her sterile workstation.

She picked up a pair of metal tweezers. Carefully, she lifted a small, delicate bone fragment from the Victorian era and placed it under the microscope.

The second her gloved finger brushed the surface of the old bone, her heart slammed against her ribs. A sudden, vivid auditory hallucination pierced her eardrums-the distant, sweeping melody of a string quartet playing a Victorian waltz, layered over the frantic rustling of heavy silk skirts. The phantom smell of burning beeswax candles and old dust filled her nose. It wasn't just panic; it was a visceral plunge into a memory that didn't belong to her current life. The sensory overload paralyzed her.

Cora's hand jerked. The metal tweezers slipped from her fingers and hit the stainless-steel table with a sharp clack.

Lena jumped at the noise. She turned around, her brow furrowing. "Cora? Are you okay? You look like you're going to pass out."

Cora took a deep, ragged breath. She forced the panic down into her stomach. She shook her head. "I'm fine. Just slipped."

Before Lena could press the issue, the heavy sound of synchronized dress shoes echoed in the hallway outside.

The laboratory door swung open. Dr. Thorne's assistant poked his head inside, looking frantic.

"Everyone drop what you're doing," the assistant ordered loudly. "Report to Conference Room One on the third floor. Right now."

Cora peeled off her latex gloves and threw them in the trash. She followed a buzzing, excited Lena out of the lab and toward the stairwell.