Chapter 127 One-hundred & Twenty-seven

• Mikhail
• At the end of a winding drive, the tall iron gates creak open despite the lack of rust on the painted hinges. I drive onto the grounds of the Long Island mansion where Maria was born while she sits quietly beside me in the Mercedes with her hands folded in her lap. I decided we would come here alone, assuming neither of us could have anticipated the sight looming over us. In a neighborhood filled with sheltered clapboard houses close to the ocean, the imposing mansion looks like a gothic misfit.
• Momentarily, the wind off the ocean fills the silence with an eerie rustle before it rushes through the trees.