Eric Schindler was the one person on the planet who could tell me what had happened to Victor. Plan B? What was that? I listened closely to his eulogy.
Janet had covered her face and head with the black chiffon scarf which made her look slightly ridiculous, like a standard issue widow from central casting.
“Who else is looking?” Janet asked. Roy brushed her off on that one. “What kind of information are you delivering? And to whom?” Roy brushed her off on that one, too. All he would say ...
The Bukh had been divided into four parts, but since none of the siblings were on speaking terms, no one knew who was where.
In that moment, as they stared into one another’s eyes, she knew the whole damn thing was fated, impossible to fight. “Jesus,” he said. They were both shaking.
He listened closely, eyes narrowed and dubious, a person trained to disbelieve. She felt as if she was playing a very strategic game of chess.
I let out a gasp. She took a deep breath. “No, it’s okay, it’s good. I’m almost forty-three years old, so last chance, and I loved Roy.”
On closer inspection, I saw Janet's dress was snug over her chest and decided she was one of those people who ate for comfort when they were distressed.
When the police searched the tiny house where Cecily Rose had been sequestered, they crawled beneath the structure and found a hidden grave.
I wondered how she felt about being away from her daughter now, when whatever poison was in her system might take her away forever.