I need to get out of here. If I don’t, there’s no telling what my treacherous body will talk me into doing. I’m already disgusted with myself enough as it is.
I have to go. Now.
I don’t wait. Don’t stick around for Petyr or Kira or Uncle It to crawl out of the woodwork. I just grab my purse from the nightstand and slip into the hallway, padding down the corridor on silent feet. The whole way, I can feel my heart pounding in my throat.
By some miracle, I make it to the kitchen without crossing paths with anyone. I give the perfect surfaces a wistful look. Mom would have loved this place. Before my father broke her heart and her spirit, she would have loved to bake cakes here, in the middle of the woods, the air filled with the scent of vanilla and the laughter of her children.
That’s not going to be me, though. That isnevergoing to be me.
I head for the back door near the pantry. I glimpsed it earlier, during Kira’s deadpan tour, and made a mental note on the spot.
Without a second thought, I rush out into the cold night. Without a plan, without a map, without so much as a jacket to keep me warm.
But I do know one thing.
I amnotending up like my mother.
No matter what Petyr Gubarev says.
10
PETYR
Thirty minutes into our phone call, Ivan still isn’t done going off about Boris Sidorov’s tantrum. Apparently, the man’s acting likeIran off with his daughter instead of his daughter running off without me.
Un-fucking-believable.
If my father were here, there’s no way a small fish Sidorov would have dared to open his mouth at all. Maybe to apologize. To beg for forgiveness, offer up three other daughters in exchange, promise to make new ones as needed.
If my father were here, Polina wouldn’t have dared to run.
The rant seems to go on forever. I’m no longer even sure whether it’s still about Boris or if my uncle is letting his own misgivings about the situation slip in.
I listen with half an ear, distracted. Anybody else, I’d have told to fuck off about twenty-nine minutes ago. But this is my uncle, and as much of a pain in the ass as he can be, I know he means well. Too well, sometimes.
“Ivan,” I cut him off. “Polina stole a car and disappeared. The contract’s already been broken—byher.Boris is just pissed I didn’t go after her and drag her back by the braid for him.”
“Still—” Ivan argues. He’s always been the diplomat of the family, always ready with a “still” or a “but” or a “nevertheless” to salvage the unsalvageable. “He wanted the alliance. Now, he’s out a weddingandan army.”
“He’s more upset with Danilo’s pressure than anything else,” I say. “We want the same thing. He’ll fall back into line if he knows what’s good for him. For now, let him stew.”
“And if he doesn’t fall back into line?”
“Then I’ll deal with him.” My tone turns sharp. “Like I dealt with everybody else.”
Ivan isn’t convinced. Soon, the conversation loops back to the Sidorovs, the alliance, the need to mend fences. I tune him out thirty seconds into it. Instead, I crack open my laptop and pull up the browser’s search engine.
I type in the name:Sima Danilo.
It only takes seconds for the results to pop up. I comb through them lazily, opening up a few tabs to zap between.
A few old articles. A missing persons report. I skim the text and focus on an old school photo instead, one that seems to have been picked up by every news outlet: a little girl with twin pigtails, scowling at the camera.
Dark hair. Doe eyes, a deep shade of oak brown. They lift at the corners, like she’s questioning you with her gaze alone. Her cheekbones are half-hidden behind the plumpness of childhood, but you can tell they’re set high, shaping up togrow sharper with puberty. And that spray of freckles on her nose… unmistakable.
I sit back, staring. It’s the same face as her. The woman I married.MySima. Older now, obviously, but it’s her.
I fucking knew it.No wonder she looked familiar. Like I said—I never forget a face.
