Mikhail
At the end of a winding drive, the tall iron gates creak open despite the lack of rust on the painted hinges. I drive onto the grounds of the Long Island mansion where Maria was born while she sits quietly beside me in the Mercedes with her hands folded in her lap. I decided we would come here alone, assuming neither of us could have anticipated the sight looming over us. In a neighborhood filled with sheltered clapboard houses close to the ocean, the imposing mansion looks like a gothic misfit.
Momentarily, the wind off the ocean fills the silence with an eerie rustle before it rushes through the trees.
"Can you believe it?" she says, her eyes wide.
It's too bizarre to comment. I nod, unable to tear my gaze away from the towers that rise above the roofline like devil's horns.
