Or worse, when he decides we’re guilty.
The shelter is a converted warehouse on the industrial side of the city. Its brick facade is covered in cheerful murals painted by former residents. I’ve volunteered here since I arrived in St. Petersburg three years ago, sorting donations and helping with childcare while women rebuild their lives after escaping situations too similar to my own.
The director, a formidable woman named Valentina, greets us at the door with a huge smile. “Daria! And little Kira! We’ve missed you.”
“I was here last weekend,” I point out.
“A week is too long.” Valentina ruffles Kira’s hair. “Natalie is in the craft room setting up for the children’s activity. Why don’t you go help her, lapochka?”
Kira doesn’t need to be told twice. She races down the hallway, her boots squeaking against the linoleum floor.
“You look tired,” Valentina comments once my daughter is out of earshot.
“I’m always tired.”
“More tired than usual.” She studies my face with the keen perception of a woman who’s spent decades reading the signs of abuse and fear. “Is everything alright at home?”
I force a smile. “Everything’s fine. Just some family issues.”
Valentina doesn’t push, but I can tell she doesn’t believe me. She’s seen too many women make the same face while insisting everything was fine. Still, she respects my privacy and points me toward the donation room, where boxes of winter clothing need sorting.
I lose myself in the work for a while, separating coats by size and checking for missing buttons or broken zippers. The repetitive task soothes my racing mind, giving my hands something to do while my thoughts spin in endless circles.
Bogdan’s expectation looms over me like a guillotine blade. Spy on Pyotr and deliver information about Dmitri’s plans, or my ex-husband will make good on his threat to take Kira away.
But can I spy on a man who was trained to detect surveillance?
Pyotr watches everything. He notices everything. He probably counted the number of times I blinked during breakfast this morning.
During my break, I slip into the empty staff room and pull out my phone. My finger hovers over Polina’s contact before I press call.
It rings four times and goes to voicemail. Again.
“Hey, it’s me,” I say after the beep. “Just checking in. I know you’re busy saving lives and all that, but it would be nice to hear your voice. Call me back when you get a chance. Love you.”
I hang up and stare at the phone, willing it to ring. My older sister is a trauma surgeon at one of Moscow’s best hospitals, and she’s the only family I have left who isn’t tangled up in Kozlov business. Our parents died when I was twelve and Polina was fifteen, and we were passed among relatives until we were old enough to escape on our own.
Polina escaped into medicine. I escaped into music. And then I escaped into a marriage that turned out to be its own prison.
It’s been three weeks since she returned one of my messages. That’s not unusual—Polina has always been fiercely private, and her schedule at the hospital is brutal—but something about this silence feels different, like she’s not just busy but actively avoiding me.
I tell myself I’m being paranoid. Polina has her own life and problems. She doesn’t need her little sister calling every week to unload her drama.
But I can’t shake the feeling that something is wrong.
The rest of my shift is filled with donated clothing, screaming toddlers, and cups of weak coffee that do nothing to ease my exhaustion. By the time Kira races toward me with a glitter-covered piece of construction paper in her hands, I’ve almost forgotten about the man waiting for us at home.
Almost.
“Mama, look! I made a picture for Pyotr!” She thrusts the paper at me, practically vibrating with excitement. “It’s a T. Rex with feathers! Miss Natalie helped me with the glitter.”
The T. Rex in question is a lopsided green blob covered in so much glitter that it sparkles like a disco ball. Red feathers—or what I assume are meant to be feathers—stick out at odd angles from its body. It’s objectively terrible and absolutely perfect.
“He’s going to love it,” I tell her, and I hate that I mean it.
We bundle up and trek back home through streets that have grown even colder as the afternoon fades toward evening. Kira chatters the entire way about friendship bracelets and volcanos and whether Pyotr has seen a real dinosaur skeleton at a museum.
“They have one in Moscow,” she informs me. “Masha went with her family last summer. Can we go to Moscow to see the dinosaurs, Mama?”
