"Yeah," I growl, and I turn and start toward the door. With this much of a mess tonight, we can't move on that final house now. They'll move Marat and that'll be that, and now I need more help. Because the way things are looking, I'm hunting a ghost in the wind, and I'm not happy about it.
8
NOEMI
The clock on the guest room dresser reads six fifteen when Lazar knocks on the door, and it makes Sasha jump beside me on the bed. We've been holed up in this room for forty-eight hours now, though at least I've learned the names of the men Mr. Gravitch—whose name I now know is Fyodor—calls his "soldiers".
My clothes feel stiff and dirty. When someone absconds with you in the middle of the day without consideration for any of your belongings or hygiene, it means wearing the same clothing on repeat without laundering. Sasha and I could both use a change of clothing and a bath.
"Time for dinner." Lazar's emotionless voice carries through the wood. "Mr. Gravitch wants you both in the dining room."
I glance at Sasha who's pressed against my side with his fingers clutching the edge of my sleeve. His face has gone pale, all the color draining out until he looks almost corpselike. "It's alright," I whisper, though I don't know if that's true. "We'll just eat and come back here." What harm could it do to eat dinner outsidethis room? Besides, if Fyodor Gravitch really is Sasha's father, we're in no real danger. A man wouldn’t hurt his son. Though obviously, he has no qualms about kidnapping a woman to care for said son.
"I don't want to see him," Sasha mumbles. The same fearful posture he had two days ago when they dragged me in here rests on him like a blanket. "He's scary."
"I know." I smooth his hair back from his forehead. It pains me that he's so intimidated. Sasha really does need me here. "But we have to eat, and maybe if we're good, he'll let us go home soon." I wince as I say that and tuck Sasha's head under my chin so he can't see it. Even if that man lets us go, Sasha has no home to return to if his mother really is dead. The state would just send him back here.
Besides, Fyodor hasn't said a word about releasing us or given any indication that this is temporary. For all I know, we're trapped here indefinitely while he does whatever criminal business he does. I'm under no illusion that the man is a saint. No one who lives by the law has "soldiers" .
Lazar knocks harder this time. "Now." Then the doorknob turns and the door swings inward.
I stand and pull Sasha up with me, keeping my hand wrapped around his. His palm is clammy and small, trembling slightly as I lead him toward the door. I'm beyond the point of anxiety or fear of what's going on. It's crossed over into anger. Fyodor Gravitch acts like we're just cattle to be herded around without a care for our actual wellbeing.
Sasha keeps step beside me, but he clings to me. It's easy to see how scared he is, and given that he just got taken from his normal life and thrust into this mess, I don't blame him.
"Follow me," Lazar grumbles, and he turns and walks down the hallway without checking whether we're behind him.
The house is massive with halls branching off in multiple directions and closed doors lining both sides. We pass a sitting room furnished with leather couches and dark wood furniture, a library with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves packed tightly with books that look like they've never been opened. But everything smells dusty and hollow, like this place is uninhabited.
Lazar leads us to a formal dining room where Fyodor sits at the head of the table with a glass of something dark in his hand. He doesn't look up when we enter, but I read the hints of frustration and annoyance on his forehead. His black hair is pushed back from his face, still damp like he's recently showered, and the tattoos on his forearms are visible where his sleeves are rolled up.
"Sit." He gestures vaguely toward the chairs on either side of the table without meeting my eyes.
I guide Sasha to a chair a few places down the right hand side of the table where he sits slouching. Then I take the chair beside him and fold my hands in my lap, sitting erect with my shoulders squared to show this man I'm not intimidated by him.
It's awkward and too quiet, but I don’t have anything to say to him right now. I'd like to request a shower and clean clothing, but the last thing I want is to anger him. He already looks unhappy to have us here.
When the man named Vasili appears carrying a tray with three bowls of soup, Sasha sits a bit straighter too. Vasili has brought us all of our trays of food, and of the three men in this home whose names I've learned, he is the kindest.
He smiles at us as he sets them down in front of us, then returns with a basket of bread and a dish of butter. The soup is some kind of vegetable broth with chunks of potato and carrot floating in it, steam rising from the surface in thin wisps. It smells good, and my stomach grumbles with hunger.
"Eat," Fyodor grunts, then he picks up his spoon and dips it into his bowl, bringing it to his mouth robotically. There is no finesse or show of enjoyment. To him this is nothing more than fueling a body for further physical exertion.
I sigh, annoyed by this dumb act. He doesn't even want us here but he insists we are a part of his dining experience. He doesn't even seem to like his meal. Why would he want someone seated here with him while he eats it?
Sasha stares at his soup but doesn't touch it. His hands stay in his lap with his fingers twisted together. I reach over and tear off a piece of bread, buttering it before placing it on his plate. "Just try a little bit, sweetheart. You haven't eaten since breakfast." His lunch—a bit of roast and vegetables—sat completely untouched. He's grieving, and he doesn't realize how important food is for his health or emotions.
But he shakes his head, not looking at me or the food.
Fyodor sets his spoon down with a clink that echoes through the room. "The boy needs to eat. Tell him to eat." I tense, feeling ready to snap at him, but I don’t want to do that in front of Sasha. This isn't how a father speaks to or around his son whois grieving the loss of his mother. He could tell him himself, but apparently, I'm his voice now.
"He'll eat when he's ready." My tone isn't at all what I'm feeling, but I've learned through hundreds of hours of teaching difficult students how to talk to someone who is annoyed. "He's frightened. Forcing him won't help."
"Frightened of what? Food?" Fyodor's eyes finally shift to Sasha, and there's no warmth in them, no understanding. "He's been sitting in that room for two days doing nothing. He should be hungry."
"He is hungry." I can feel the tension building in my chest. Restraining myself in this situation is harder than normal. "But fear makes it hard to eat. Surely, you understand that."
Fyodor picks up his glass and drinks deeply, his throat working as he swallows. When he sets it down, he turns his full attention to Sasha but the tone he uses is too stern and cold. "Tell me about your mother."
