3.18
Another week slid by. Yvette was sitting on the back step overhearing Viktor yelling at his wife and her muted anguished replies. She must have been in the house. Yvette had no idea of the subject of their altercation—the exchange was in Serbian.
A door slammed then all went quiet. Yvette hoped the woman was okay. Viktor appeared an unctuous type capable of brutality across the ironing board.
Any sort of domestic tension reminded her of her father. It was a fast track in her psyche, one the grabbing hand used to whizz her awareness back to her childhood with the alacrity of a bullet. And there she was, standing in the hallway of number fifty-two, facing her father and his two bulging suitcases. He was struggling to open the front door. Tears splashed down his cheeks. She stood firm
