Chapter 37
The old woman's house was not nearly so large or grand as Igor's. The one-story building sat at the end of the paved roads of the village, with only a dirt and gravel path twisting up into the woods beyond. When Leo, Igor, and the dog arrived, a young woman stood outside. Leo remembered her from the funeral, the quiet figure in a modest black dress talking with Elena.
Today she wore faded blue jeans and a black t-shirt gone nearly gray. She'd caught her long, brown hair in a rough ponytail, and Leo guessed she was in her early thirties. The cigarette in her hand made him wonder how far off he was, especially if she smoked as much as so many people in Romania. He'd learned over the years to simply be grateful the smoke wasn't nearly as foul as American brands.
"Igor," she said
