"You can't." The words come out too blunt, too harsh. I hear him whimper and hate myself for it, but I turn back to face him. "You'll have to stay until we figure out what happens next."
Fresh tears spill down his cheeks, and his whole body starts shaking with sobs he's trying to suppress. "But I don't want to stay here. I want mymamochka."
I cross the room and stand in front of him, towering over his tiny frame. I dwarf him by more than double his stature, and I know I must be terrifying to him. "I know you want your mother. But she's not here, and I am. So you're staying with me."
He stares at me through watery eyes, lower lip trembling. "Are you going to hurt me?"
I wince at the question because I realize how mean I must sound to him with my curt responses. I'm just not equipped for this. "No. I'm not going to hurt you."
"Mamochkasaid you were dangerous." He says it carefully, like he's trying to see if I'm being honest. "That's why she never let me see you before."
"Your mother's right." I step back, needing distance. "But I won't hurt you. You're safe here, understand?"
He doesn't look convinced, just turns his face toward the window and hugs the book tighter. His small body continues trembling, shoulders shaking with silent crying. I watch him for several long seconds, completely out of my depth, before I turn toward the door.
"I'm hungry." His voice stops me with my hand on the handle.
I look back at him. "What do you want to eat?"
"Anything. Please." The “please” makes something twist uncomfortably in my chest.
I leave the room without answering and find Lazar still waiting in the hallway. "Find the mother. I need answers."
"On it." He walks away, and I head toward the kitchen.
I stop in the center and stare at the refrigerator, realizing I have no idea what's inside. I don't cook. I order takeout or eat at restaurants when I need food. The kitchen exists for coffee and nothing else.
I open the refrigerator and survey the pathetic contents. Half a carton of eggs. Milk that's probably expired. Some deli meat still in its plastic packaging. Nothing a child would want. Nothing that constitutes an actual meal for an adult, let alone a child.
The freezer offers frozen dinners stacked in neat rows, so I grab one at random—beef stroganoff, according to the label—and shove it in the microwave. The machine hums while it heats, and I lean against the counter with my palms pressed flat against the cold granite.
This is the last thing I need right now. I have a witness to hunt down, a trial deadline approaching, and Yuri expecting results I can't deliver. There's no room in any of that for playing father to a frightened ten-year-old who wants his mother.
Lazar needs to find that woman, and fast, because this kid has got to go. Maybe when I find and kill Marat Koslov, I'll investigate this situation a little better. Being a father wouldn't be the worst thing to happen to me, but I don't have time or patience right now.
4
NOEMI
The chalk dust coats my fingertips as I write the final equation on the board, white powder settling into the creases of my skin and under my nails. I finish the last number and step back to survey the problem, checking that every digit is legible and properly spaced so the students can copy it into their notebooks without confusion.
Behind me, the children sit at their desks with pencils poised over paper, waiting for permission to begin solving. The radiator beneath the windows clanks and hisses, pumping heat into the classroom that battles against the cold seeping through the glass. I turn to face the class and brush the chalk residue from my hands.
"You have fifteen minutes to complete this problem. Show all your work, and remember to check your answer when you're finished."
The scratch of pencils on paper fills the room immediately, heads bowing over desks as the children dive into the calculations. I move between the rows, glancing at their workand offering quiet corrections when I spot errors in their process. The clock on the wall above the door ticks steadily toward dismissal time. I know these children are desperately anticipating their weekend with all the fresh snow. They've been restless all day, probably daydreaming of sledding and snowball fights and all the chaos that comes with winter play.
My eyes drift automatically to the empty desk that's been vacant all week. Sasha's textbooks are still stacked neatly inside the desk. His pencil case is sitting on top where he left it last Friday before rushing out to catch his bus.
I've tried calling his home number three times this week, but no one answers. The phone just rings and rings until the voicemail picks up, and I leave messages that go unreturned. It's not unusual for students to miss a day or two when they're sick, but an entire week raises concerns, and no one has called the school to let us know he's been ill.
The bell is so loud, it triggers an immediate eruption of movement. Children shove notebooks into backpacks, zip up pencil cases, and scramble toward the coat hooks where their winter gear hangs. Voices rise in excited chatter about plans for the weekend, and I raise my voice above the commotion to remind them about Monday's homework assignment, but half of them are already out the door before I finish speaking.
Within minutes, the classroom empties completely. It's sort of a bittersweet feeling knowing I'm done working and can relax, but I'll miss their smiling faces so much.
I walk back to my desk and sink into the chair, pulling my lesson planner toward me and flipping to next week's schedule where color-coded writing details what we'll learn starting Monday. Iuncap my pen and write a note in the margin next to Monday's date to check on Sasha if he's not here.
My heart is aching for him as I wonder if the reason for his absence this week is because of his mother's illness and not his own. Families deal with illness in their own way, but not informing the school or a child's teacher seems odd to me. Or maybe it's because I've let myself grow too attached to the idea of rescuing him.
