He opened the door and listened, but he couldn't hear anything, not even traffic noise. He wanted to check out the snow, but he had to go to the bathroom first.

The bed was between the closet and the door, so he didn't see her until he rounded the bed.

“Mom?”

She didn't answer.

Her eyes were open, and she was looking at him, but she didn't move or say anything. And her face was twisted like she was making a Halloween face.

“Mom!”

Her face was so white and funny looking.

She wouldn't answer him.

He knew something was wrong, and that he should help her, but he was afraid. But he was ten, almost ten, and he had to be brave. He took his mitten off and inched forward.

“Mom? Say something, Mom. Should I call for help? Should I get Ted?”

She still didn't say anything. He was close enough to touch her outstretched hand.

“Ted! Ted! Anybody?”

The apartment across the hall was empty, and it was so quiet, and maybe Ted hadn't come back?

He touched her hand, and it was cold. He backed away until he hit the bed, and then he jumped on top and scooted to the head. He grabbed the phone and dialed 911.

That had been twenty-three years ago, and he could only remember bits and pieces of his life up to his mother's death. He had never asked how she died; maybe he didn't really want to know?

But Yuri Corzo, an erstwhile Cuban spy, had told him that she had been murdered. Yuri was a smiling sociopath, who valued truth as much as he did human life, but he couldn't just let it go even if no one seemed to be willing to help him; not even the people closest to him.