“Because no one should grab a woman like that. Because you looked scared. Because…” He stops and shakes his head. “Because I wanted to.”
It’s not a real answer, but it’s more honest than anything else he could have said.
I don’t know how to respond to that, so instead, I stand there, watching him watch me.
And then his phone dings, breaking the silence. He pulls it out and reads the screen, and his eyes go cold.
“What is it?”
“The man from the grocery store. Semyon Baranov.” He tucks the phone away. “He works for your ex-husband.”
“Well, yeah, but how do you know that?”
“I sent his photo to someone who could identify him. Bogdan Lebedev. That’s who’s been calling you, right? That’s who you’re so afraid of.”
I don’t bother denying it.
He moves to the front door and checks the deadbolt again, then the window latch, and then the chain.
“Starting tonight, you don’t open the door for anyone. Not delivery. Not neighbors. No one you don’t recognize.” He tests the deadbolt a second time before he adds, “If someone knocks, you come get me first.”
“Pyotr—”
“This isn’t negotiable.”
I should remind him that he’s here to investigate me, not protect me.
But the words won’t come, because for once in my life, someone else is checking the locks.
9
Pyotr
Day ten starts like any other morning in this apartment.
Kira insists on showing me her collection of dinosaur drawings before school, and I spend fifteen minutes examining each one with the seriousness she’s come to expect.
Daria watches from the kitchen doorway with a cup of tea in her hands. When it’s time to leave, Kira hugs my leg and makes me promise to be here when she gets back.
I promise. It’s getting harder to remember that I shouldn’t.
Once they’re gone, the apartment falls silent. I stand at the window and watch Daria and Kira disappear around the corner, two small figures bundled against the cold. Kira’s new shoes leave prints in the fresh snow. She’s walking properly now, not shuffling to keep broken soles from flapping.
I wait until they’re out of sight before I turn away from the glass.
I’ve been putting off a second thorough search of Daria’s bedroom. Part of me claimed it was about respecting her privacyand not crossing lines that didn’t need crossing. But that was a lie I told myself to avoid the truth.
I didn’t want to find anything.
But Dmitri needs answers, and my time is running out. I can’t protect her from what’s coming if I don’t know the full picture.
I cross the apartment and push open her bedroom door.
The room is small and neat, like everything else in this place. Her bed is made with military corners, and the pillows are arranged just so. A small dresser holds a jewelry box and a framed baby photo of Kira. The closet door is closed, and a romance novel sits on the nightstand beside a half-empty glass of water.
I start with the dresser.
The top drawers hold what I expect. Socks, paired and folded. Shirts arranged by color. Nothing hidden between the layers, and nothing taped to the undersides. I move methodically through each drawer, checking each corner and seam.
