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Late night–no, was already morning. I read through an email when my gaze snagged on a name. I stared at it, incredulous. After forty years, I had found Zenia.
Zenia is not her real name. I’ve changed it to protect her privacy. When I was fifteen, I met her on her first day at school. A year older than me, she was a tall, statuesque teen with a well-developed figure and, as I discovered, a wild imagination. She was a “boarder”—a residential student; I was a day-student whose mother was also a teacher. Continue reading my guest blog at Ladies of Mystery
Nev March: Award Winning Author of Historical Mysteries 