“Not anymore.”
“Why not?”
“I got too big. The puddles don’t stand a chance.”
She giggles at this, and my chest tangles tight. I tell myself it’s gratitude, nothing more.
The afternoon passes quietly. I teach my lessons while Pyotr does whatever he does, and by the time my last student leaves, the winter sun has already started to set.
Pyotr’s phone rings as I’m cleaning up the sheet music scattered across the piano. I glance over and see him answer with his face neutral.
Then it changes.
His jaw sets hard, and a muscle jumps in his cheek. He turns away from me and speaks so low that I can’t make out what he’s saying. When he hangs up, he stands motionless for a long moment, staring at nothing.
“What is it?” I ask, preparing for the worst.
“It’s started. Investigators are building their case.”
I knew this was coming. Dmitri told me that the warrant had dropped and the accounts were frozen.
My meager savings account—the one I opened when I fled to St. Petersburg that Bogdan doesn’t control or know about—is untouched for now. Most of my students pay in cash, so I can keep food on the table.
It was only a matter of time before the authorities got started, but hearing the confirmation makes my stomach plummet anyway.
“What does that mean for me?”
He pauses as though he’s trying to find the words before he says, “It means your time is running out.”
I sink onto the piano bench. I’ve spent three years building a life out of nothing, and now it’s crumbling because my ex-husband used my identity as a shield for his crimes.
“Dmitri will want answers soon,” Pyotr continues. “If I can’t give him proof of your innocence, he’ll have to assume the worst.”
“And what happens then?”
He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to.
I spend the rest of the evening in a fog. I go through the motions of dinner and Kira’s bedtime routine, but my mind is trapped in a maze with no exit, running from threats that multiply no matter which way I turn.
Kira asks me to sing her favorite lullaby twice before she’ll close her eyes. I do it because I can’t deny her anything tonight, not when my time with her might be measured in days.
After Kira falls asleep, I sit at the kitchen table and empty her backpack the way I do every night. Permission slips, artwork, and the occasional forgotten snack wrapper.
Tonight, my fingers brush something that doesn’t belong.
A crisp, white envelope with no postage or return address. Just Kira’s name written across the front in handwriting I’d recognize anywhere.
Bogdan’s handwriting.
My hands go numb as I tear it open.
Inside is a formal custody petition. The header bears the seal of a Moscow family court, and my ex-husband’s name appears in bold print as the petitioner. The filing date is two days ago.
He’s already started.
I review the pages as my vision swims. Phrases jump out at me like knife wounds.Unfit mother. Criminal associations. Unstable living environment. Immediate transfer of custody recommended.
A photograph of Kira walking into her school this morning is clipped to the last page. Her new shoes are bright against the gray slush. The angle is too close. Someone stood within arm’s reach of my daughter and snapped this picture.
