ELENA POV
For three days after we moved my mom to the private facility, I allowed myself to breathe.
She was safe. Protected. Her memory was returning in steady fragments she'd remembered the weapons front companies, the offshore accounts, even some names of Brighton's co-conspirators. The doctors were optimistic that with careful prompting, she might remember everything.
We maintained our rotation. Eight hours on, sixteen off. Armed guards everywhere. Triple-checked credentials for every staff member.
I was in the facility's small kitchen, making coffee at six in the morning, when Adrien found me.
His face was pale. Jaw tight. The careful composure he always maintained had cracked.
"Elena." His voice was quiet. Controlled. Which somehow made it worse. "We have a problem."
My hands stilled on the coffee pot. "What kind of problem?"
"Prague police. They're here. They want to speak with you and Damien."
