“That is wise.”
“I am old, not blind.”
For the first time, one of the men almost smiled.
Viktor leaned forward. “We will be gone at first light.”
“And if you are not?”
His eyes met hers. “Then you may throw us out.”
Marta let out a dry laugh before she could stop herself. “Four men like you?”
“No,” Viktor said. “One woman like you.”
The words unsettled her because they were not mocking.
They sounded respectful.
Later, Marta gave them blankets from a chest and retreated to her room. She did not undress. She did not sleep.
She lay stiff in the dark, listening.
A chair creaked.
Someone whispered.
Once, she heard Anton say, “We shouldn’t have come here.”
Then Viktor answered, “She opened the door. That means something.”
Marta pressed her hand over her heart.
The storm raged until sometime before dawn. Then silence came so suddenly it felt unnatural.
For a few minutes, Marta must have drifted into a thin, broken sleep.
When she woke, the world was pale.
Morning light pressed against the frost-covered window. The house was quiet.
Too quiet.
Marta sat up.
No voices.
No boots.
No firewood shifting.
She opened her bedroom door slowly and stepped into the main room.
Then she screamed.
The four men were gone.
But the black sports bag remained on her table.
It was open.
Inside were the bundles of cash, stacked neatly. The metallic object was no longer hidden. Beside it lay a folded piece of paper with Marta’s name written across it.
Her hands shook so badly she nearly fell.
She backed toward the wall, whispering, “No, no, no…”
Had they left stolen money in her house?
Was this a trap?
Would police come and accuse her?
Then she noticed something else.
On the floor near the stove was a small wooden box.
It was not hers.
Marta picked up the note first.
The handwriting was careful, almost painfully slow.
Ma’am, forgive us for frightening you. We had no right to bring danger to your door. But you saved our lives tonight, and now we must save yours. Do not call anyone yet. Open the box first.
Marta’s breath caught.
She lowered herself into a chair and opened the wooden box.
Inside was an old silver locket.
Her silver locket.
The one she had buried with her daughter twenty-nine years earlier.
Marta stopped breathing.
Her daughter, Elena, had died young. Everyone knew that. Fever, the doctor had said. A sudden illness. Marta had been too poor, too stunned, too broken to question anything.
But now the locket lay in her palm, cold and real.
Under it was another note.
Your daughter did not die the way they told you.
The room tilted.
Marta clutched the edge of the table.
The front door burst open.
Snow scattered across the floor as the village mayor, Pavel Orlov, entered with two police officers behind him. His cheeks were red from cold, his coat expensive, his eyes sharp.