Her voice. Familiar and sharp and so achingly normal that my eyes filled with tears before I could speak.
"Lisa. It's me."
Silence. One beat. Two.
Then: "Gaby? Oh my God—Gaby, is that you?"
"It's me." The tears were falling now, sliding down my cheeks unchecked. "I'm so sorry, Lisa. I'm so sorry I couldn't—"
"Where the hell are you?" Her voice cracked, anger and relief colliding. "Do you have any idea—I filed a police report, Gaby. I've been calling hospitals, morgues—I thought you were dead. I thought someone had—"
"I know. I know, and I'm sorry. I couldn't contact you before. It wasn't safe."
"Wasn't safe? What does that even mean? What happened to you?"
I glanced at Vasily, who gave me a small nod. Careful. Be careful.
"I can't explain everything," I said. "Not over the phone. But I need you to know that I'm alive, and I'm safe. I'm not in danger."
"Not in danger? Gaby, you disappeared. Your apartment was broken into—the police found signs of forced entry.Your phone was disconnected. You missed the—" She stopped abruptly.
"Missed what?"
"The Carlsen gala. Your father called me, looking for you. Said you'd promised to come." Lisa's voice hardened. "Not that he seemed particularly worried. More annoyed that you'd embarrassed him in front of his colleagues."
Of course. Of course my father's primary concern would be how my disappearance reflected on him. I pushed down the familiar bitterness and focused on the conversation at hand.
"I should have found a way to contact you sooner. But the situation was—complicated. I'm only now in a position where it's safe to reach out."
"Safe from what? From who?" Lisa's voice sharpened. "Gaby, are you in some kind of trouble? Because if someone's forcing you to say these things—"
"No one's forcing me." The irony of the statement wasn't lost on me, but it was true now. Whatever I'd been in the beginning, I wasn't a prisoner anymore. Not really. "I'm making my own choices, Lisa. They're just not choices I can fully explain."
She was quiet for a moment, processing. I could picture her expression—the furrow between her brows, the way she chewed her lip when she was thinking hard.
"Where are you?" she asked finally.
"Europe."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I can give you."
More silence. Then: "Are you with someone? Is this about a guy?"
I laughed despite myself—a wet, hiccupping sound. "In a manner of speaking."
"Gaby..."
"I'm married, Lisa."
The silence that followed was deafening. I counted the seconds—one, two, three, four—before she finally spoke.
"Married." The word came out flat, disbelieving. "You're married. To who? When? How is that even—"
"It happened quickly. I know it sounds insane. I know you have a million questions I can't answer." I pressed my free hand to my stomach, drawing strength from what was growing there. "But he's—he's not what you'd expect. He's complicated and difficult and he's done things I can't forgive, not entirely. But he's also kind, in his way. And he takes care of me. And I—"
I stopped, not sure how to finish. Not sure what word applied to what I felt for Vasily Chernov.
