The Final Mystery
Ch. 12, The Death of Anton Sokolov
There she is.
Much taller than he remembered and strikingly beautiful. Her face looks so familiar yet uncanny with how much she’d grown. He’d been picturing the young fifteen-year-old, her short black hair frizzy with the morning rain and her big eyes made even larger behind her thick, ill-fitting glasses.
“Amelia,” he replies, attempting to smile without shaking. “You look wonderful. How are you, dear?”
















