Chapter 45
CHAPTER
FORTY-FIVE
My name is Sloane Walker.
I’m an orphan, my parents having been killed when I was a baby because they were criminals.
My foster brother, Noah, bled out in my arms. The organization he gave his life for caused it, despite the many months I spent blaming myself.
For a while, it felt like he was the final remnant of my humanity, and I was nothing but a walking corpse.
I was an agent for a company called the International Security Agency.
They prey on orphans, on children who don’t know any better and have no one powerful to miss them.
Those agents believe themselves to be heroes, good guys, upholders of justice—because that is what they are told, and their world does not allow for another option. In a way, they are victims themselves.
My name is Sloane, and I am not a victim.
I have unknowingly been the hand that forces unspeakable tragedies. I have been disconnected for years, a stranger to myself and the world around me.
My name is Sloane, and my favorite color is green.
Not pale like eucalyptus or yellowish like olives. But vibrant, deep and complex, like my childhood with Noah or the hills of Scotland or the way it feels to finally breathe again.
My name is Sloane, and I can be stubborn and susceptible to brooding.
I am also tough, and brave once I’m through feeling sorry for myself.
There are many parts of myself—all the scorched bits and the good pieces that balance them—that I want to know and better understand.
I’ve fought for all the wrong things and all the wrong people.
Now, I think, I want to fight for myself.
For a future where I can dance and laugh and stare at fields of green without worrying over what lurks in them.
My name is Sloane, and I’m in love with a thief named Graham Baudelaire.
Although infuriating at first, he found those drifting, forgotten pieces of myself and put them back together, recognizing the picture before I could. He is selfless and kind, however much he tries to hide it. He helps me want to be the person I thought was lost.
I’d really like to be looking in his eyes when I draw my final breath, whether it’s in sixty years or tonight, at the Consultant’s hand.
If it’s the latter…
Well, you can bet I’ll go down fighting.