Seeing Arthur, Lera sharply turned the stroller around and walked quickly toward the park exit.
“God, please don’t let him notice. Oh, just don’t let him see us,” she prayed.
Lera knew: Arthur would figure out that it was his daughter, and then her quiet, peaceful life here would end immediately.
— Lera? — came a voice from behind.
Frozen with fear, she stopped; and in the next second, a figure in a strict black suit caught up beside her.
Without greeting Lera, Arthur stared into the little girl’s face—then into hers.
— How old is she? — the brown eyes narrowed, and tendons played in his cheeks.
— Half a year, — Lera said softly. And from Arthur’s look, she understood with horror: she had just signed her own sentence.