Nodding, I kiss her warm forehead. “Yes, цветочек, your dress is very pretty. Just like you. May I ask you a question?”
She nods, placing small kisses all over my cheeks.
“Why did you call Renata a bad lady? And why fire? Did she hurt you?”
Irina stops kissing my cheeks and blows a raspberry. “Bad lady,” she repeats in Russian. “Burn paper with picture.”
“What do you mean burn paper with picture?” I ask, pulling back to look at her.
She uses both pointer fingers to draw a rectangle in the air, or rather, she draws the shape of a postcard.
Irina has never seen a postcard before; therefore, she refers to one as paper with a picture because essentially, that’s what it is.
But when? There was no way she could have taken it when she was in the SUV. It was only one time. But then I realiz
