“Maybe someday.”
“You always say that.”
“Because someday is always maybe.”
She considers this for a moment, then nods as if I’ve said something profound.
When we reach the apartment, I smell it before I even open the door. Something savory and rich, like onions caramelizing in butter. My stomach growls despite my anxiety.
The apartment looks different inside. Cleaner. The stack of dishes I left in the sink this morning has vanished, and the counters sparkle in a way they haven’t since I moved in. Even theperpetual puddle beneath the kitchen faucet—the one caused by the leak I’ve meant to fix for months—is gone.
Pyotr steps out of the bathroom with a wrench in his hand. “The faucet washer was worn. I replaced it.”
I stare at him, unsure how to respond. “You fixed my sink?”
“It was dripping.”
“It’s been dripping for months.”
He shrugs his massive shoulders and replies, “Now it’s not.”
Kira pushes past me and runs straight to Pyotr, waving her glitter catastrophe in the air. “I made this for you! It’s a T. Rex with feathers!”
Pyotr crouches to her level, and something in my chest constricts. He’s so big, and she’s so small, and he handles the glitter-covered paper like it’s something precious rather than a craft project made by a five-year-old with too much enthusiasm and not enough fine-motor control.
“This is very detailed.” He studies the disaster with apparent seriousness. “I can see that you put a lot of work into it.”
“I did! Miss Natalie said I used more glitter than anyone else in the whole shelter.”
“I believe it.”
I watch the interaction with a knot in my stomach. The way he’s crouched at her eye level, giving her his full attention. His scarred hands hold her artwork so carefully, and his voice softens when he talks to her, losing the cold edge that makes my spine stiffen.
He’s good with children. This terrifying man who could snap bones without breaking a sweat is gentle with my daughter in a way that makes my heart ache and my body respond in ways I refuse to acknowledge.
I notice the way his shirt stretches across his back when he leans forward. The flex of muscle in his forearms as he points to something on Kira’s drawing. The strong line of his jaw when he turns to look at me, catching me staring.
Heat floods my cheeks, and I quickly look away and head into the kitchen.
“There’s soup on the stove.” Pyotr straightens to his full height. “I wasn’t sure when you’d be back.”
He made soup. He fixed my sink, cleaned my kitchen, and made soup.
I don’t know what to do with any of this.
Dinner is a strange affair. Kira dominates the conversation with stories from the shelter, detailed explanations of every dinosaur in her collection, and questions about whether Pyotr likes glitter. I eat my soup in near silence, too aware of the man sitting across from me and the way his presence fills my tiny kitchen.
After dinner, I put Kira to bed with her usual routine—bath, story, lullaby—and then I’m left alone in the apartment with Pyotr Fedorov and no idea what to say to him.
He retreats to the spare room, and I hear the murmur of his voice as he makes a phone call. He’s probably reporting to Dmitri, telling my cousin whether I seem guilty or innocent or somewhere between.
I take a seat on the piano bench and let my fingers find the keys in the darkness.
Chopin’s Nocturne in E-flat major. The piece I always play when my mind won’t quiet, and my heart won’t stop racing.
The soft, melancholy music fills the apartment, and I lose myself in it the way I always do. My fingers subconsciously know the notes, and my body sways with the rhythm. For a few precious minutes, I’m not a woman trapped between two predators. I’m a musician playing the only thing that makes sense in a world that stopped making sense years ago.
When the final note fades, I sit in silence and breathe.
