The skin of my neck feels clammy against the wig. I don’t take off my shades, having noted the cameras throughout the vault. So much for anonymity, I think, moving swiftly to the nearest counter as soon as the woman is gone. I select English, key in my code as it prompts me. Tap my fingers on the counter. Wonder, for the first time since Jester’s search, if the Glagolitic symbol for life on my spine was just that—a reminder to live. If the numbers above it mean something else, have no correlation to this place whatsoever.

The plate in the counter abruptly slides open. A biometric thirteen-by-fifteen-inch box arrives on an elevator platform. I stare at it for a long moment before picking it up. It is surprisingly light, but it might as well weigh a ton. It carries the mass of multiple lives and has cost me my past and possibly my future as well.

I carry the box to one of the rooms, which lights up as I enter, and lock the door behind me. Set the box on the table, remove my shades. Sink into the chair.

My mouth is dry as I press my thumb to the pad, and a part of me actually prays that it will not open.

But God doesn’t hear that one.

It chirps, flashes green.

I slowly lift the lid.

32

The oversize envelope inside is nearly two inches thick. I lift it out, fumble with the old-fashioned string.

A leather journal slides out on a stack of papers. The book is worn around the edges, the ties that bind it stiff from lack of humidity.

I know I should shove everything back in the envelope and go. But I also know it could be hours before I have any semblance of privacy; I can’t fathom processing any of what this is—let alone what it might mean—in front of an audience.

I coax the ties open, flip through the journal, which is nearly full. A small photo drifts onto the table, and I pick it up. A newborn in a yellow outfit. I turn it over. It’s marked “Audra két napos.”

My breath escapes me as though I’ve been punched. I have never seen a picture of myself this young. Where did I get this, who took it—and where?

Photo between the fingers of one hand, I turn to the front of the journal.

The first twenty or so pages are a list of notes in my handwriting.

Born Vojvodina 1981 mother: Serafina

father?

Belgrade: 1992–December 1994 (Bosnian war)

1995: lover—Marton ___?

. . .

Budapest 1997–1998 Prince: Attila

1996: Nyirbator

2001: Attila killed

2002–January 2003: Budapest Prince: Andrik

2005: Returned Budapest? Tamas killed?

2008: Zagreb Prince: Imre

2013: Bratislava 2x

2016: Croatia ___?

Died August? Body found near Csepel Island, Budapest

I blink, heart stuttering. I had been tracking someone.

My mother.