“It’s perfect,” she declares.
The pride in her voice makes something warm behind my ribs.
She turns around and looks up at me with beaming blue eyes. So trusting. So certain that I won’t hurt her.
Lana looked at me like that.
The memory surfaces before I can stop it. Eight years old with dark braids and a gap-toothed smile. She held my hand through three days of hell in Syria. She trusted me to keep her safe and get her back to her father.
I promised her she’d see him again. I promised her everything would be okay.
In the end, it turned out anything but.
“Pyotr?” Kira’s voice yanks me back to the present. “Are you okay? You look sad.”
I blink hard and shake my head. “I’m fine.”
“Are you sure? Because Mama gets sad sometimes, and she says she’s fine, too, but I can tell she’s not.”
“Your mama just doesn’t want you to worry.”
“I know.” Kira scrambles off my lap and retrieves her hairbrush. “Thank you for braiding my hair. You did a really good job for your first time.”
She’s out the door before I can reply, leaving me with ghosts I thought I’d buried years ago.
I sit on the edge of the bed and rub my palms against my eyes until the memories fade. Lana is gone, and nothing I do will bring her back. But Kira is here, and she’s unaware of the danger surrounding her mother.
I decide right at that moment that no one will touch this child or her mother.
I make the vow silently, knowing full well it contradicts every reason I’m here. I’m supposed to be investigating Daria, not protecting her. Gathering evidence of her guilt, not planning ways to keep her safe.
But some promises matter more than orders.
***
Daria leaves for the grocery store around eleven, after Kira has been safely dropped off at school.
I wait two minutes after she exits the building, then trail her at a distance in my car as she makes her way through the gray St. Petersburg streets. She walks quickly with her head down and her shoulders hunched against the cold. Not once does she look back.
Either she’s not expecting to be followed, or she’s past the point of caring.
The grocery store is a modest place a few blocks from the apartment. I position myself near the entrance and watch through the window as she grabs a basket. She disappears into the produce section, and I keep my eyes on her through the glass.
Everything looks normal for a few minutes. She examines vegetables and checks her list twice before adding anything to the basket. She moves through the aisles like a woman who’s done this a thousand times.
Then, a man in a dark coat approaches her near the apples. He’s well-dressed and in his mid-thirties. He looks normal enough, but something about him sets off alarms in my head. Maybe it’s the way his eyes stay locked on her back.
I pull out my phone and snap a few photos through the glass before he reaches her.
Daria freezes the second she sees him.
The man grabs her arm. His fingers dig into her biceps, hard enough that the fabric of her coat bunches beneath his grip. Even from this distance, I see her go pale. But she doesn’t pull away or call for help. She stands there while he leans in to speak directly into her ear.
I’m through the door before I make a conscious decision to move.
The store is small enough that I reach them in seconds. The man is still talking with his hand locked around her arm when I close my fingers around his wrist.
I squeeze, not hard enough to break anything, but hard enough to make my point.
