“Is this Sokolovsky’s child?” I turned, not understanding. In front of me stood a stranger. A blue cloak hugged her neat little belly. “I’m asking: is your baby the son of Andrey Sokolovsky?”—she repeated the question, a bit embarrassed.
Instinctively protecting my son, I looked at her. “Why are you asking?”
“You’re Olga Voloshina, aren’t you? You worked in the city administration reception as an assistant to Andrey Sokolovsky?”
“I worked there before my maternity leave. But what does that matter?”
“I also worked as his assistant,” she said quietly, pressing her hands to her belly, and added: “After you.”