Markos nodded. Lee wanted to take his hand. Was this some kind of trauma response?
“The workers who built this neighborhood were from the island of Anafi,” said Markos, speaking while he allowed Lee to catch her breath. “They built their homes as their ancestors had done.”
Lee looked around at the whitewashed homes.
“My grandmother was from Anafi,” said Markos. “This is my neighborhood.”
High above the city, Lee could hear birds and the rustling of leaves. Markos pointed to a vacant building. “This building was once our family bakery,” said Markos. “My parents were tricked, while I was in college.”
“Tricked?”
“An investment that did not exist. They lost everything believing in a lie.”
“Like Regan.”
“Yes. This matters to me.”
Lee gazed at the sweeping views from Anafiotika, the sun warm on her face. The Acropolis towered above them, and the city was spread out below.
“Why are you telling me this?” Lee asked.
“Because I want you to understand—I’m not trying to use your fame to solve this case.” Markos met her eyes. “I see someone in pain trying to help her sister. That’s all.” Lee was disarmed—Markos genuinely seemed to care. When was the last time someone had been nice to her without wanting something?
Markos was so straightforward and earnest…it made Lee suspicious. Was his candor a cultural thing?
Lee was accustomed to being prized for her external beauty and connections. But being treated with dignity confused her. Lee was filled with conflicting desires: She wanted to press Markos against the wall of his family’s former bakery and kiss him. Also, she wanted to run.
Instead, she spoke as earnestly as Markos had. “I found my father,” Lee said, the words emerging before she could stop them.
Markos held her gaze.
“When I was fifteen. He had killed himself in my bathroom. Hung himself.” Lee kept her voice steady, reciting facts. “I found him before school. I called 911, then went downstairs and made breakfast for my sister and brother. Mom told them he’d had a heart attack. Only my mom and I knew what he had done.”
She waited for the usual response—the awkward sympathy, the change of subject. But Markos asked, “What did you make them for breakfast?”
His unexpected question caught Lee off guard. “What?”
“For breakfast. What did you make?”
“Cinnamon toast,” Lee said, remembering. “It was the only thing I knew how to cook besides scrambled eggs, and we were out of eggs.”
Markos nodded thoughtfully. “My father walked out on my mother when I was twelve. I also made breakfast for my sisters and brothers. Bread with olive oil.”
“I’ve never told anyone about making breakfast,” Lee said. “It seemed…I don’t know. Trivial—compared to finding my dad.”
“Not trivial,” said Markos. “It’s the moment you becamesomeone who takes care of others. You’ve been doing it ever since, yes?”
Lee was moved by his insight. She had spent her life alternating between control and chaos, always trying to manage others’ emotions while her own threatened to drown her.
“My old therapist would charge three hundred dollars for that observation,” she said. Her mind returned to Regan. “I keep thinking about what I could have done differently. If I’d visited my sister, called her more…how could I not have known what she was getting into?”
“She’s an adult,” said Markos. “Why would you feel responsible?”
“It’s just who I am,” said Lee.
Markos leaned forward. “Lee, you are here now, fighting for her.”
Her dark thoughts taunted her:He’s just saying what you want to hear.
