I hate him a little for that.
I love him a lot for it, too.
“So then what happens to her?”
Afon’s head tilts. Just a fraction. “You know the answer to that, Matvei.”
I meet his eyes and say nothing.
He sighs. “She goes to prison. That’s what happens to her. Twenty-five to life, probably. Maybe less if her lawyer is decent and leans hard on the abuse angle.” He shrugs one shoulder. “She might do ten and get parole. She might do the whole thing. That’s not our problem.” His frown deepens. “Is there a reason you’re asking?”
“I like to know what I’m signing up for. That’s all.”
Afon remains skeptical, but he eventually sits back and the weight of his attention lifts off me by about half a degree. Not all the way, though. Never, ever all the way. Not once in fifteen years.
“Nephew,” he
