Six thousand miles away from Aiysha's sleepless bedroom, Kyle sat on a bench at the top of Primrose Hill and tried to decide where the truth should begin.
Maya was waiting. Her knuckles were still white around the sketchbook.
"Then talk," she had said. "I'm not going anywhere."
Kyle looked out at the skyline. The wind had picked up, tugging at his collar.
"He's your father," he said. "Your real father. You were born Angelica Vescari."
Maya didn't flinch. She had heard the name Angelica before. From him, at the café. From her own dreams, long before that. But hearing it beside a surname made it heavier. More real.
"Angelica Vescari," she repeated quietly.
"When you were four years old, something happened to his family. Something violent." Kyle chose every word carefully. "People came for them. His father, your grandfather, was killed that day."
Maya's breath caught.
"And everyone thought you died with him."
For a long moment, the only sound was the wind.
