“You do?” She says. “Yes,” Dean says. “Because of her.” He nods toward a willow tree a dozen yards away. In the protected shelter beneath the low-hanging branches, a little blonde girl sits on a picnic blanket, headphones over her ears, reading a chapter book. “That’s Frances,” Rose says. “You were pregnant,” I say, understanding at last. Rose nods. “Adrian was . . . deteriorating. The pregnancy was accidental. When I realized it was a girl . . .” A shudder runs down her slim frame. “I know how the Bratva treat their girls.”
