“The cookies just came out of the oven,” she said. “Want some?”
The apartment was dim, giving just enough light for Foster to make out the features of Donovan’s wife. She was the woman in Donovan’s photo all right, her long hair tied into a neat bun, her breasts barely hidden underneath the apron she wore over her tank top and denim cutoffs. She was barefoot, her toenails painted a dark color, the same one, he guessed, that adorned Luli’s.
“What’s your name?” he asked as she led him to the sofa, put a plate of fresh-baked cookies and a glass of milk in front of him, lingering long enough for him to catch sight of the top of her breasts.
“Nida,” she said. “I’m making pot roast for dinner; you must stay.” Her English was impeccable, though heavily accented. Foster found himself wonderi
