He set the bowl of stroganoff he’d brought on the empty dresser top and took a look around the room.It was difficult to say with any accuracy how well this place represented her. It was obvious that nobody had stayed in this room for a long while. There was a fine coat of dust on the furniture, and the queen sized bed was pristine. Still, he could easily imagine a teenaged Annika living in this place.It was neat in a practical sort of way. There were a few landscapes hanging on the wall, as well as a black and white photograph of the Moscow skyline. A single picture sat on the nightstand. Feliks picked it up, struck by the beauty of the woman portrayed in the tiny silver frame.“That’s my mother,” Annika told him quietly.He looked up, realizing that she’d entered the room wearing only a towel. Her hair was still wet. The dampness only served to intensify the color. She was blotting and squeezing the length of it with another towel while she stared at him. The shape of her body fascinated him.
