Maya had been fourteen when the Hamiltons brought her home.
Not rich, not poor but comfortable in the way that meant groceries without checking prices, the occasional holiday abroad, and a garden big enough for a dog. They were two English people who had wanted a child and, for reasons neither fully explained, ended up with an Italian girl who barely spoke English and flinched at loud noises.
They named her Maya because she couldn't remember her real name.
Or rather—she could remember having one. A name that tasted like home. But the memory was smoke and impossible to hold.
"Maya! Breakfast!"
Her mother's voice carried up the stairs. Susan Hamilton. Fifty-two. Warm smile, flour always on her hands.
Maya closed her book and headed down.
The kitchen smelled like eggs and toast. Her father, David, sat at the table with the newspaper, his glasses sliding down his nose.
"Morning," he said without looking up.
"Morning."
