CHAPTER 3
On Friday, before I met him, I had sketched Boris in the courtroom. At first he had looked tender as he’d bent to talk to Trudi. His look had been so touching that I had turned to a blank page. I sketched broad strokes with my charcoal pencil, trying to capture the protective arc of his arm as it went around her shoulders, the tilt of his head toward her. His tailored navy blue suit sat on him like a second skin. I guessed he worked as a banker or a lawyer. Someone used to money. Someone who expected the system to pay attention to his problems.
I remembered how, when the suspect marched in, Boris had glared at him with such loathing I turned again to a fresh page and sketched his fury. I wondered what he would do if the suspect were acquitted. He’d looked ready to hunt him down and mete out his own justice.
At the end of the day I had hurried out of the courthouse, anxious to get to the paper and make my deadline. I’d slipped on the wet stairs and pitched forward. A strong hand shot out and caught my elbow. My sketchbook flew out of my hands.
“Careful,” said a concerned voice.
“Thank you,” I said, steadying myself on an arm clad in navy blue. I gazed into Boris’s eyes for the first time. They were brown, flecked with gold. Up close he was even more handsome. I jumped back and tripped again.
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