I smile politely, pretending not to have heard. But the nickname echoes through me all day, stirring something deep and wild I can’t explain.
The Bear.
It should sound ridiculous, but it makes my heart pound instead. I take a moment to dip into an alcove and text Katherine.
Did you get me into something dangerous?
The “read” indicator pops up. But no dots; she doesn’t respond, so after a minute I add furiously:Want to explain why a legitimate businessman would have a nickname like The Bear? Or should I call David at the office and ask?
Thatgets me a response. Not a text—a call.
“What are you doing, Roxanne?” she hisses. Glancing down the hallway, I tuck further into the alcove. It’s impossible not to feel like this is taboo; this conversation, this topic. “Can’t you just accept a pile of money and play dumb?”
My face goes hot at that. I’ve never liked being called dumb, even if it’s a warning that Ishouldbe dumb in this instance.
“No. Not if this is something bad, Kat. Is he mafia or something?” I whisper.
My sister’s laugh is jarring. “Does he look Italian to you, Roxy?”
It’s a stupid question. I’ve heard the accent behind his commands and the Russian spoken on the compound. For a long moment there’s silence between us, and then Kat sighs. “Just do what you have to for a bit, okay? You’re a momma bear, aren’t you? Do it for Andrea.”
Inside, my moral compass twitches.
“Give her a kiss for me.”
I hang up abruptly, not caring if Kat is offended. If she and David got me into something…
No. I can’t think about it that way. I pocket my phone and step back into the hall. I am almost late for the PR meeting regarding Ursa Arcane’s donation to The Nature Conservancy. I should listen to Kat, keep my head down, work long enough to settle Mom and Andi somewhere, and then pursue my masters.
I shouldn’t keep digging; not with a bear so close by.
But something deep inside me twinges as I look out the windows lining the long hall. Out in the forest, men in light tactical gear are murmuring to one another in another language and doing little to hide their firearms.
By Friday, I walk the grounds on my lunch break, hoping it looks like I am just out to stretch my legs and get some fresh air. I know I shouldn’t be nosing around, but it feels like I’ve stepped into a fairy tale that’s gone slightly wrong.
Mr. Medvedev, if we were face to face, eyes locked, would see the lie in me. He’d hunt it out from the shadows.This is the one thing that makes me feel relieved that Andi is in Cambridge.
The gardens are manicured to perfection, every hedge and flowerbed deliberate. The paths curve toward a conservatory of glass and steel that gleams brightly in the sun. Birds chatter in the pines and water trickles from a fountain shaped like a roaring bear.
I pass the dining room on my way back in. The long table inside gleams with crystal and dark wood, and staff are clearing away dishes from some earlier meeting.
That’s when I see it. A ring.
It’s gold and heavy with a carved pattern of claws and Cyrillic script sitting to the left of a half-empty glass at the head of the table.
I don’t touch it, but the sight of it sends a cold rush through me. I’ve seen it before, years ago. I pull my gaze away.
By the end of the week, I’m exhausted. I tell myself it’s just an adjustment period of long hours and the pressure of proving myself. But part of it is missing Andi.
Every night, we talk before bed.
“Mom, when can I come see your new house?” she asks tonight, her voice small over the phone.
“Soon, bug,” I say, sitting on the edge of the bed. “I’m looking at a few places tomorrow. I’m still in this little tiny apartment.”
“Is there a beach?”
“Not like Chatham,” I admit, smiling. “But there’s a river. And woods. You’ll love it.”
