I review my analysis—the spreadsheet I've been building, tracking every detail Mila uncovered.
"Escalation," I say. "He takes more time with each victim. Irina in 2009—quick kill, relatively clean. Elena in 2010—he called during, made it theatrical. By 2020 with me, he spent five years building the obsession before the physical attack."
"So with each victim, he invests more. Gets more elaborate."
"Exactly. And his methods get more psychological. Early victims were straightforward violence. Later victims—like Anastasia, who's non-verbal in psychiatric care—he destroyed mentally more than physically."
Mariana makes notes. "So if we apply that pattern to you—"
"I'm his magnum opus. Fifteen years of evolution leading to me. He poisoned me, held my friend hostage, forced a performance at Lincoln Center, revealed my pregnancy before I knew. Every aspect calculated for maximum psychological impact."
"And now he's silent."
"Because he's planning something even more elaborate." The certainty settles cold in my stomach. "Halloween wasn't his finale. It was his preview."
Mariana's expression is grim. "I was afraid you'd say that."
We spend the next hour analyzing possibilities. Where would he go? What resources does he have? How is he surviving wounded?
"He had this planned," I conclude. "Months, maybe years. Escape routes, cached supplies, alternate identities. He's been living underground in New York for months—that takes preparation, resources, connections."
"So he's not improvising. He's executing a long-term plan."
"And we interrupted it at Lincoln Center. Made him adapt. But the core plan—whatever he's ultimately building toward—that's still active."
After the call ends, I sit in the study, staring at my analysis.
Anton is out there. Wounded but planning. Silent but obsessed.
And I'm pregnant, visible, exactly the target he wants.
Saturday evening, November 20th.
Maksim and I are in the bedroom, preparing for sleep. I'm eight weeks pregnant, showing just enough that my clothes are getting tight, but not obviously pregnant to strangers.
"Three weeks since Halloween," I say, studying my reflection in the mirror. "No word, no sightings, nothing."
"The task force is frustrated. Mariana said they've never had a suspect who disappeared so completely after such a public incident."
"Because he's good at this. Fifteen years evading capture. This is what he does." I turn from the mirror to face him. "What if he's waiting for me to show? For the pregnancy to be obvious?"
Maksim's expression darkens. "He won't get near you."
"But what if that's his plan? Wait until I'm further along, more vulnerable, more visible?"
"Then we increase security, limit public appearances, whatever it takes."
I cross to him, let him pull me into his arms. "I'm scared. Not of being pregnant or being married or building the foundation. I'm scared of him out there, silent, planning whatever comes next."
"I know. Me too."
We stand together in the quiet bedroom, both understanding the truth: Anton's silence isn't surrender.
It's the calm before something worse.
Sunday, November 21st. Morning.
I wake up early, check my phone. Email from Mariana, sent at 3:00 AM.
