His body goes still, but the heartbeat under my palm picks up. For a long time, he doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t move a muscle, and I’m certain my question will stay unanswered.
But then, he starts talking. “Dasha was my wife,” he whispers, and my eyes snap open.
“We met by accident,” he continues, “or that’s what I believed at the time. Six years ago. She was a few years older than me, a waitress in a coffee shop I frequented. Shy. Slightly unsure of herself. She was Russian. Here on a work visa, trying to get her papers.” He scoffs. “I was young. Stupid. I believed the farce. And, I liked her. Felix checked her background, of course. It seemed solid. When I told him I was going to marry her so she could get her green card, he went ballistic. At least at first, but then he said it mi
