Not with anyone.Their mother had vanished, history had flipped to a new path, her brother and sister had no memory of the years Jill had stolen from them, and the tragedy was entirely her fault. She had been reckless and impulsive, like any teenager, but the consequences had been so shattering that words, explanations, and many memories had been swept from her and her family with the force of a hurricane scouring away homes, historical artifacts, even entire lives. Hurricane Jill.She had kept it inside until she was forty-one, a doctoral student in political science at Georgetown.The tall, wavy-glassed windows in the old classroom stood open. A cool, page-riffling breeze, the distant cries of children, and the first sunlight in weeks encouraged students to think of little else. Certainly, no one but Jill was paying attention to their professor, a Soviet expat.A slow and measured speaker, Koslov framed his English precisely. His pause after “In this case…” seemed to last forever.Jill said, “I disagree.”“On what grounds?”
