He laughs, his eyes locked on hers like blue lasers. She looks down at her hand. The .22 Beretta is now a photograph of three smiling African girls. The picture is covered with cellophane and is singed in one corner. She tries to give Hakizimani the photograph but he is no longer there. Her hands are wet. She looks down again. The photograph is covered in blood. She wipes it on her clothes, frantically trying to clean it, but there is only more and more, a crimson tide pouring through her fingers…. Yael jerked awake at the touch on her shoulder, her eyes wide, her body tense as she strained against her seat belt, instantly sweeping her surroundings. The stewardess, a matronly woman in her late forties, looked at her in alarm. “Madam, are you all right? We are landing soon. Please fold away your table and straighten your seat-back.” Yael nodded, slowing down her breathing. She pressed the button on the side of her seat. The back sprung forward and she slid the tray table into place.
