ADVERTISEMENT
She sat by the window in a chair—so fragile and aged that it took my breath away. But her eyes—those same perceptive and tenacious eyes—recognized me instantly.

I told her about my new life—about the café, quiet evenings with books, about learning to start over. She listened, occasionally nodding, then said:
“He planned to stage an accident during the honeymoon on a yacht. Everything was prepared in advance.” Her voice trembled:
“And now he’s sent me here to live out my days because I started digging into his affairs. Do you know how many ‘accidents’ have happened over these years with his partners?”
“Vera Nikolaevna,” I cautiously took her hand. “Do you have proof?”
She smiled:
“Dear, I have a whole safe of evidence. You think I’ve been silent all these years for nothing? I was waiting. Waiting for you to return.”
The same steely fire that I saw each morning in the mirror sparked in her eyes.
“Well, dear bride,” she squeezed my hand, “shall we give my son a belated wedding surprise?”