Born and raised in Edinburgh’s industrious Leith district, Cordelia Frost turned a childhood fascination with salvaging lost photographs into a two‑decade career resurrecting data thought dead. After mastering the physical and logical layers of storage media, she found herself chronicling the moral fallout of each recovered file, eventually channeling that habit into a series of forensic thrillers and documentary essays. Her fiction revolves around the paradox of permanence and erasure, drawing from the wound of a case where delayed data cost a loved one’s life. Obsessed with the idea that nothing truly disappears, she writes to remind readers that every deleted byte carries a story, and that privacy is a fragile illusion. Through meticulous pacing, she mirrors the slow, deliberate process of data recovery, letting each revealed fragment reshape the reader’s understanding of truth. Cordelia’s prose is spare yet weighty, each sentence calibrated like a checksum—precise, humming with quiet authority. She blends technical clarity with a wry, archaeological reverence for the hidden, so the first thing a reader notices is the steady rhythm of her language, a calm that belies the tension of the secrets she uncovers.
Tall, lean, with sharp blue eyes that seem to scan like a scanner; short, ash‑brown hair kept in a practical bob; hands calloused from years of coaxing life from dead drives.