Twenty Seven Days
The air was crisp, carrying the sharp, salt-heavy scent of the Atlantic mixed with the distant, familiar hum of city traffic coming from the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway below.
Scarlett stood on the small iron balcony, her hands resting on the cold railing, her leather jacket zipped up against the evening draft. Her green eyes were fixed on the Statue of Liberty in the distance, its green copper skin catching the last rays of the sun. She felt remarkably light, as if the heavy operational armor she had worn since her escape from London had simply evaporated into the New York air, leaving behind nothing but the clean, raw truth of her own skin.
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