“Nobody ever does,” I say quietly. I carefully touch his shoulder, expecting him to flinch away from me.
Instead, he presses into my touch. “I didn’t know what else to do,” he whispers. “I’m so sorry, Ilya. I didn’t have a choice.” He lets out a choked half-sob, half-laugh. “I mean, I guess I did. But I did it anyway.”
“You were trying to survive,” I say carefully. My own pain is long gone, replaced only with concern for Micah. “None of this is your fault.”
Micah tries to speak, but he sobs again. This time, I pull him into my arms, going slow enough to give him the chance to protest. He doesn’t, instead wrapping his arms around me in turn and clinging to me.
“You’re going to go to jail,” he says after a moment. “I shouldn’t have asked you to come.”
If he hadn’t, there’s a very good chance he’d be dead right now.
“I have been to prison in Russia. American prison will feel like kindergarten in comparison,” I joke.
Micah doesn’t laugh.
I sigh and kiss his forehead. “Boris is waiting outside. He will help clean. Nobody will know. We’ll remove his body, get rid of all things here. Make it look like the motherfucker ran away.” I frown. “Do other cops know he lives with you?”
Micah shakes his head. “No,” he says softly. “It’s his house. No one knows I exist.”
I feel another burst of anger. Of course he’d hide Micah away like a dirty little secret.
“But all my clothes are here, and…” He smiles, but it’s not a happy smile. “I guess I don’t have much else. Except my cello.”
“We will empty house,” I say. I reach into my coat for my phone and call Boris. He picks up on the first ring.
“Hey, Boss,” Boris answers.
“Are there a lot of neighbors?” I ask in Russian. “The kind who would notice things?”
“Nope. I heard the gunshots, but nobody even peeked out the windows. If anybody’s home, they’re minding their own business.”
“You heard the gunshots and didn’t come running?” I ask, torn between amusement and annoyance.
“I figured if you were dead, it was too late, and if you weren’t, you could handle it.” Boris makes a sound. “Anyway. Clean-up time?”
“Yeah. Get somebody to bring a van. We need to make it look like somebody left in a hurry.” I glance at Micah. “And we’ll definitely need to talk to Milov again.”
“Got it.” Boris hangs up.
I put my phone away so I can pull Micah into my arms again. “Mishka… I will take care of you,” I promise. “You can finally be free.”
“Can I?” he asks bleakly, for all that he burrows into my arms. “Because he’s still in my head, Ilya. He’ll always be in my head. That’s not freedom.”
The words resonate inside of me, because I feel them. I understand them.
My father’s death hasn’t freed me of his violence.
It continues inside me, every time I beat down another person.
“It’s hard,” I murmur. “But this isn’t the end for you. You can finally figure out who you are. I want… I mean, I hope you choose to do it with me. Together. But if you want to do it alone, I will give you money. You can study cello, or record your performances. Post them on the internet. Go to university. Whatever you want to do.”
“I’m just a whore,” he says, his voice dull, “going from one man to the next. Spreading my legs to get what I want. I’ll just use you, too.”
“No,” I say firmly. “You are musician. Your music touched me. When I was angry and sad, I heard your music and it eased my soul. We are both damaged and hurt. But we are not simply what insecure, angry men tell us we are.”
It’s a strange revelation, hearing these words coming out of my own mouth.
I don’t have to be my father’s legacy.
