Margaret Leigh

I found my new department located in another abandoned temple – this time much older than Alfred Mond’s shrine to the Imperial Chemical Industries. The Old Admiralty had been purpose-built as the headquarters of the British Navy in 1703. Its courtyard walls were topped with leaping dolphins, the ceilings decorated with plaster anchors, and the inte

When I was twenty-five, I thought I’d never have to look at this version of my face. I had romantic notions of dying in action before wrinkles ever set in, but here I am, looking every bit my forty-two years of age. Living hard doesn’t mean dying early; sometimes it just means those hard years end up on your face.

Once again, we are strangers, bound together only by envelopes of cash and a Starbucks gift card, with which he buys coffee to signal when he wants to meet me.

On the platform, I see girls in miniskirts, boys in jackets with football logos, all of them thirsty for their next drink. I am stone-cold sober. I never drink before an operation, and that’s what this feels like. Operation Danny. It’s only dinner and maybe sex. And after that? I know how to disappear. It’s my specialty.

I don’t want him to show up at my hotel, nor do I want to be knocking at the door of his apartment, because both places present difficulties when it comes to a graceful escape. I am always about having a planned escape route, whether it’s from a firefight or a romantic evening, and a restaurant is a safe place to meet.

“What’d she do to you?” I pause, searching for words to describe how Diana lit the tinder that destroyed my career. My life. “She turned me into a traitor,” I say. The truth is far more complicated, but when you live in a world of mirrors, the truth is always distorted. Too often, it’s what we choose to see while ignoring all the inconvenient bits,

“What do you do?” I take another swig of water, a pause to cue up my backstory. “I’m an import analyst for Europa Global Logistics.” “Europa? As in Jupiter’s moon?” “Very good. Most people don’t know that.”

I think of the go bag next to my bed and how easy it would be to drop out, skip town, even skip the country. But this is my home now, and I’ve spent two years building this life, settling into its rhythms. I’m tired of moving, tired of searching for a landing spot. This is it. This is where the wandering stops.

Inside the niche is where I store my go bag. Over the years I have pared down the contents to the basics, just enough to skip town and hunker down elsewhere for a few weeks. Passports, credit cards, multiple bundles of cash in different currencies, and a few tools of the trade.

I can’t imagine it had anything to do with me. That’s the biggest lie of all. Of course this has to do with me. What I don’t know is what message the body in my driveway was meant to convey. Is it to terrify me? Or is it a gift, the same way a cat brings you a dead mouse? A way to tell me: We took care of your little problem. You’re welcome. I have