Jacob said. “May I help you?” A woman stepped forward, coming to meet him, and in the streetlight’s glow he saw that she was older, perhaps fifty, attractive, with a ramrod stiff military posture. And angry. By her body language he could see she was angry. He could relate to angry. “Are you Jacob Denisov? I assume you are. You look totally healthy.” The words were civil enough, but her low voice vibrated with resentment. Was this another crazy lady? He didn’t think he could face two in one night. “I am Jacob Denisov. I’m fine, thank you.” “Of course you are. My name is Vera LaFreniere.” He tensed. “Brandon’s mother.” Why was she here at his house? Why so late? “Yes. I’m Brandon’s mother. I brought you a letter.” She thrust a legal-size white envelope into his hand. “Take it.” He did, held it firmly, lifted it to the light, read his name printed awkwardly on the front. “Sorry about the lousy handwriting, but Brandon … he insisted on writing that himself.”
