My brother studies my face for a moment. Whatever he sees there makes him nod.
“All right, but you let me run the interrogation. You’re there to observe, nothing more. Understood?”
“Understood,” I answer with a nod.
He calls Boris into the room to make the arrangements. Tony will be picked up within the hour and brought to a secure location. Not the main
compound. Somewhere more private. Somewhere designed for getting answers from people who don’t want to give them.
“One more thing,” Dmitri states, holding up a finger. “If this goes the way I think it will, you need to be prepared for what we might learn. About him. About why he’s here.”
“I know.”
“You look like a woman who’s hoping I’m wrong about him, Sasha. That there’s some explanation that makes this okay.” His voice softens just a fraction before he adds, “There usually isn’t.”
I don’t have a response.
Because he’s right. Part of me is hoping that Tony will walk into that interrogation and explain everything in a way that makes sense. That the lies were necessary for some reason I haven’t considered, and the man who held my hand in St. Petersburg is real, even if his name isn’t.
But hope is dangerous. It’s what gets you hurt when reality doesn’t match your expectations.
“When do we start?” I ask instead.
“Two hours. That gives Boris time to set everything up.” Dmitri stands. “Go home and get some rest while you can. This is going to be a long day.”
“I’m not going back to the safehouse.”
“Then stay here. I’ll have someone bring you coffee.” He pauses at the door. “For what it’s worth, Sasha, I’m sorry. I know you cared about him.”
“I barely know him.”
Dmitri leaves without responding, and I’m left alone in his office with a phone full of evidence and a chest full of hurt I don’t know how to handle.
16
Tony
I’m on my second cup of coffee when the door explodes inward.
No warning. No knock. Just the crack of splintering wood as Boris and three men in police uniforms flood into the safehouse.
My weapon is ten feet away on the kitchen counter. Might as well be ten miles. I’m sitting on the couch in sweatpants with a mug in my hand, and four armed men are already inside, spreading out to block every exit.
“Don’t move,” Boris orders in Russian.
I don’t. I tick through scenarios, working the odds. Four against one, caught sitting down, no weapon in reach. Fighting would be suicide, and it would hurt Sasha.
That last thought stops me cold.
“Where’s Sasha?” I ask.
“Get up. Slowly.”
I set down my coffee and stand with my hands visible. One of the uniformed men moves behind me while another pats me down. They’re thorough, checking for weapons they won’t find. My phone comes out of my pocket. My wallet. Keys to the safehouse.
“Am I under arrest?”
“You’re coming with us,” Boris declares. Not an answer.
