I gasped awake.

I fought against the fog of my dream. Sweat soaked the sheets that ensnared my limbs and my heart slammed against my ribs with gusto. The police files I fell asleep perusing ended up tossed to the floor, or became collateral damage during my fight with the bedding.

The morning sun poured in through the cabin window and chased away the cold darkness, clinging to my skin and psyche. I told myself it had only been a dream, even though it left the tell-tale headache that accompanied my visions. 

I detangled from the sheets, gathered the files into some semblance of order, and showered. The time under the jets gave my mind the opportunity to dwell on last night’s revelation.

How much of my life had been a lie? Who was the real Katrina Sykes? And wha...

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