Then the brush explodes outward in an explosion of snow crystals that dance away on a gust of wind. Sasha bursts through the stalks not three feet from where I'm standing, covered in snow from head to toe. It clings to his hat, his coat, his pants. His face is flushed and smiling, and he holds the ball triumphantly above his head.
"I got it!"
Relief crashes through me so hard my knees go weak. I reach out and grab his shoulders, then pull him against my chest in a hug that's too tight and lasts too long for what a teacher should give a student. He squirms in my grip, and I feel the dampness of his coat soaking through mine. His small body radiates warmth despite being covered in snow, and I press my face against the top of his head and breathe in the smells of cold air and child sweat and wet wool.
"You scared me," I say. My voice comes out shaky. I pull back and hold him at arm's length, looking him over for injuries. His cheeks are bright red, his nose running. Snow melts on his eyelashes. "You can't just disappear into the weeds. I thought you were hurt."
"I'm sorry," he says. His eyes are wide and apologetic. "The ball rolled really far. I had to dig it out from under a bush."
I brush snow from his shoulders and straighten his hat. My hands won't stop trembling. "You need to be more careful. And next time, answer when I call you."
"I didn't hear you." He shifts the ball from one arm to the other. "The wind was too loud."
I nod and try to compose myself but my heart still pounds against my ribs. "Go on. Run and play. But stay where I can see you."
He grins and takes off running back toward the playground, the ball bouncing against his hip as he goes. I watch him rejoin the other boys, who immediately start kicking the ball back and forth again. Their shouts carry as one of them scores a goal against an imaginary net and raises both arms in victory.
I turn and walk slowly back toward the playground on unsteady legs as the panic fades gradually, replaced by embarrassment at how strongly I reacted. It wasn't appropriate. Teachers aren't supposed to lose their composure over a student wandering off for two minutes to retrieve a ball. We're trained to stay calm, to assess situations rationally, to respond with appropriate measures. But the moment I couldn't see Sasha, something primal took over.
Ever since his mother mentioned during parent conferences that her cancer had progressed faster than the doctors expected, my heart made space for a little boy I knew would be hurting so badly, he would fall apart. And now I'm just waiting for that call, any day, saying his mother is gone. It makes me want to gatherhim up in my arms and protect him from the pain I know is inevitable, but I can't.
Sasha doesn't know yet, or if he does, he hasn't said anything. He comes to school every day with his lunch packed and his homework completed and a smile that seems too bright for a child carrying that burden. Sometimes, I catch him staring out the window during lessons, daydreaming, but he always snaps back when I call his name. He answers questions correctly. He participates in group activities, plays with the other children at recess.
I reach the edge of the playground and stop beside a wooden bench half-buried in snow. My legs feel heavy, weighted down by more than just wet fabric. I watch Sasha laugh as he kicks the ball past one of his friends. He moves with such ease, such unconscious grace, completely unaware that his world is about to shatter.
Part of me wants to talk to his mother again, to offer some kind of help or support. But what would I say? What could I possibly offer that would make a difference? I'm a single woman living in a small apartment on a teacher's salary. I barely make enough to cover my own expenses each month. Rent, utilities, groceries, the occasional book or pair of shoes when mine wear out. There's no room in my budget for raising a child, no matter how much my heart aches at the thought of Sasha ending up in some state facility where he'll be just another number in an overwhelmed system.
I know life isn't fair, but this has to be the worst feeling of all—knowing how unfair life will be to someone and being unable to stop it.
But if I could change things, I would. And that boy would only know love and happiness for the rest of his life.
3
FYODOR
January
I've been at this for five hours now, hunched over my desk with the phone pressed to my ear more times than I can count, listening to the same excuses delivered in different voices from contacts spread across three time zones. My neck aches from holding the same position too long, muscles tightening into knots that radiate down between my shoulder blades and settle at the base of my spine.
The coffee in the mug by my elbow has gone cold, a thin film forming across the surface that catches the light shining through the window behind me. I should get up and stretch, maybe brew another pot, but I don't move because moving means losing momentum I can't afford right now.
Marat Koslov is out there somewhere, tucked away under state protection with guards and safe houses and protocols designed specifically to keep men like me from getting anywhere near him. Every lead I've chased since November has turned into a dead end, every contact who promised solid information hasdelivered nothing but vague possibilities and requests for more money.
Kazan was a bust. Volgograd might've held promise except by the time my investigator confirmed the location, they'd already moved him again. The state's taking this seriously, which means they know exactly how dangerous it would be to let someone from the Gravitch family get close enough to finish what should've been handled months ago.
The map pinned to the wall across from my desk is covered in red circles and crossed-out names, a visual representation of my failure that I'm forced to stare at every time I look up from the notes scattered across the desk’s surface. My handwriting fills page after page of a notebook, phone numbers and addresses and half-formed plans that dissolve the moment I try to execute them.
I've made calls to Moscow, to contacts in Perm, to a fixer in Yekaterinburg who claimed he had inside access to the protection program but couldn't deliver anything more substantial than rumors. I've paid out thousands in bribes and promises, and I'm no closer to finding Marat than I was when Yuri first handed me this assignment at the funeral.
The trial is set for March, which gives me less than two months to locate a man who's being moved every few weeks to prevent exactly what I'm trying to accomplish. It's a persistent weight on my chest that tightens every time I think about standing in front of Yuri and admitting I've failed. He's counting on me to protect Inessa.
I lean back in my chair and press the heels of my hands against my eyes until colors burst behind my eyelids. The leather creaks beneath me, which only reminds me how long I've been sittinghere accomplishing nothing. My phone sits on the desk in front of me, waiting for the next call I need to make. I've got three more contacts to reach out to before the day ends, people who might have information or might waste another hour of my time with empty promises.
But before I can make the next call, Lazar's name flashes across the screen. I pick it up and answer without a greeting, bringing it to my ear while straightening in my chair. "What is it?"
Lazar sounds rushed as he says, "Boss, you need to come downstairs now."
"What happened?" I ask, annoyed at the interruption, but I stand and stretch my legs, knowing a response is warranted. If Lazar is upset, it must be big.
