“Seems like it,” I mutter, folding the onesie into a tight square.
She hums, moving to sort through a box of battered board books. “You know, the first time he came here fifteen years ago, I thought he was casing the place. Big, rich man, scary man sniffing around my door? I nearly called the police.”
My hands still. “What changed your mind?”
“The woman who came with him.” Elena plucks a copy of Goodnight Moon from the box, thumbing its water-stained pages. “Her face was… how you say? A mosaic. Broken pieces glued with fear. Sasha carried her suitcase. When I asked if she needed sanctuary, he said, ‘No. She needs a boat.’”
Jealousy licks my ribs. I hate myself for it. “His mistress?”
Elena barks a laugh. “His conscience. Her husband was a powerful man, a bad man.” She sets the book as
