“Do you live alone?”
“I do now. My husband died in 1982. My daughter lives abroad, and her son’s in Oregon, now. I see them twice a year, but otherwise it’s just me and the plants.”
“I’m sorry about your husband.”
“It was a long time ago. I dated some after. But, you know it goes.” She stands. “Let me make us some tea to go with your cookies.”
She disappears into the kitchen. Sasha hears the kettle filling, the click of the stove.
She’s about to check her phone when there’s a knock at the door.
Linda reappears, frowning slightly. “Excuse me a moment.”
She crosses to the door, peers through the peephole, then opens it partway.
A woman’s voice in the hallway, too low for Sasha to make out words.
Linda steps into the hall, pulling the door mostly closed behind her.
Sasha sits very still, listening.
She can hear murmuring. “Now is not a good time. Come back later.”
Linda returns, closing the door firmly behind her.
“Sorry about that. Neighbor needed to borrow something.”
“Could I use your bathroom?”
“Of course. Down the hall, first door on the right.”
Sasha stands and walks down the narrow hallway. The door at the end of the hall is ajar. She passes the bathroom and keeps going. Another one of Valentina’s lessons that didn’t stick was never snoop when you’re a guest in someone’s home.
She peers inside the room, expecting to see a guest bedroom or maybe more plants.
Instead the room is filled with filing cabinets and shelving. Document boxes labeled with dates and alphanumeric codes lines the shelves. In the center of the room, there’s a small desk with a reading lamp. It looks like Linda’s in the middle of a massive document review from the days when law firms sent associates to paw through boxes instead of scroll through images.
This room is a time capsule.
No. It’s an archive. In a retired library volunteer’s spare bedroom.
Sasha’s mind races. Who keeps decades of files in their home? Former intelligence? Academic researcher? Historian?
The kettle whistles in the kitchen.
She tiptoes to the bathroom, flushes the toilet and runs the water.
When she returns to the kitchen, Linda is pouring tea into mismatched mugs, both with library-related slogans.
They talk for another twenty minutes about the gala, but Sasha’s thoughts are down the hall with all those boxes.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Leo looks up when Sasha walks into the dining room turned command center and gestures toward his laptop. “Sasha just walked in, Hank.”
She walks around the table and drops a kiss on the crown of Leo’s head before she greets Hank on the videocall.
“Sorry I’m late. I just had the weirdest experience.”
