Fatal Secrets

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Sonia was thirteen the first time she killed a man.

She and Izzy were prisoners in a filthy basement, the sound of men stomping above making Sonia jump when dust rained on her. Izzy cowered in the far corner on a foul-smelling, stained mattress atop the hard-packed dirt floor. The older girl spoke with an odd Spanish dialect that Sonia barely understood-that is, when Izzy spoke at all. During the hours they’d been imprisoned together, Sonia had learned her name, but not much else.

Sonia’s father had taught her a variety of languages and dialects over the years. The importance of establishing a rapport with the villagers required being a quick study of both verbal and physical language. She’d eagerly participated in the lessons because she’d wanted to earn her father’s rare praise. If only she’d known the truth.

If you’d known the truth, you’d be dead.

For ten days, through fear and anger and guilt so foul-tasting she could barely eat even when allowed a stale meal, she mourned all she’d lost. Her innocence, her father-her very identity.

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