Chapter 11 — The Glasses

Gabriel was halfway down the stairs, staring at me, when Sabine turned and saw him.

She recovered with a speed that told its own story — the speed of long practice.

“Darling,” she said, and her whole voice changed mid-word, the honey flooding back in, “this woman was threatening me.” She gestured at me, wet and dripping on the marble, as though the scene explained itself in her favor, as though a soaked old housekeeper and a dry young bride told an obvious story about who had wronged whom.

I reached up and took off the thick glasses.

I watched the recognition move across my son’s face in stages — confusion first, then a dawning horror as the shape of the wig and the uniform failed to hide what he was now seeing underneath them.

His mouth opened.

The color left his face.

“Mom?”

The single word came out cracked in the middle.