Three total.
Three ears in our walls, listening to every moment of false safety we thought we had.
Sergei writes on a fresh sheet of paper:
We leave them active. Let Matthew think we don't know. We relocate to Hamptons—Andrei's safe house. It's clean.
I nod, then write:
What about Mila?
She doesn't know about Matthew. Doesn't know about the bugs. We tell her we're taking a beach vacation. Keep her safe while we handle this.
She'll know something's wrong.
She's eight. She always knows something's wrong.He pauses, then adds:But she trusts us. That's enough for now.
I stare at his words. At the implicit promise underneath them—that we'll protect her from the truth until she's ready to handle it. That we'll be the barrier between her and the violence that's circling our family like sharks.
That's what parents do, I realize. Carry the weight so their children don't have to.
When did I become a parent?
Somewhere between burnt cookies and blood in toilets. Between hospital beds and whispered promises. Somewhere in the space where fake became real and convenient became necessary.
I write one more thing:
Wesley's sending the poisoning evidence to the police today. Matthew's going down for this.
Sergei reads it. Shakes his head. Writes:
Police can't protect her. Courts take months. Matthew has lawyers, money, connections. By the time justice catches up, we could all be dead.
So what do we do?
His smile is cold. Lethal. The Wolf baring teeth.
We end him. Publicly. Permanently. Before he gets another chance to hurt what's ours.
What's ours.
Not his daughter. Not my stepdaughter. Ours.
I fold the paper carefully, tucking it into my pocket beside the bug. Evidence of conspiracy. Proof of intent. Ammunition for whatever comes next.
"I'm going to check on Mila," I say out loud, voice perfectly normal for any listeners. "She was restless last night."
"I'll make breakfast," Sergei responds, playing along. "Pancakes. She likes pancakes."
We're performing now. Acting out the domestic routine for Matthew's benefit while our real plans stay locked behind written words and silent understanding.
I climb the stairs to Mila's room. She's still asleep, dark hair spread across her pillow, one arm wrapped around that stuffed wolf Sergei won her at a carnival. She looks peaceful. Innocent.Completely unaware that someone tried to kill her twenty-four hours ago.
That someone is still listening.
I sink into the chair beside her bed, watching her breathe. Each inhale feels like a miracle now. Each exhale feels like borrowed time.
Three months ago, I was picking out shoes for charity galas. Dodging my mother's phone calls. Living a life so insulated from violence that the worst thing I could imagine was a bad review in the society pages.
