After Syria, I stopped trusting anything that looked too perfect, like clean evidence, simple answers, and neat packages tied with bows. Perfection is almost always a lie, and the truth hides in the mess.
Daria’s evidence is too perfect, which means someone constructed it. Someone who wants her to look guilty.
I need to find out who.
I put everything back where I found it. The phone beneath the lace, the cash behind the coats, and the ledger page inside the romance novel. If someone is watching, and if they planted this evidence and are waiting to see what happens, I don’t want them to know I’ve found it.
Let them think their trap is still set. Let them get comfortable while I work.
I pull out my phone and message Tony.
Need everything on Bogdan Lebedev. Ex-husband of Daria Kozlov. Associates, business dealings, current location. Full workup. Priority.
His response comes within minutes.
Already on it.
Bogdan’s man grabbed Daria in public like he had every right to touch her. Bogdan’s man has been calling her from a blocked number for three years. Bogdan gave her a phone the same month she fled Moscow.
This isn’t about money laundering; this is about control.
The front door opens, and I quickly pocket my phone. Daria’s voice carries through the apartment, slightly out of breath. “Kira, grab your permission slip from the table. Quickly, malyshka, or we’ll be late.”
“I know, I know!” Small footsteps thunder down the hallway, and Kira appears in the kitchen. She grabs a piece of paper from the counter, then spots me standing near the living room. Her face breaks into a grin. “Pyotr! Mama forgot to sign my permission slip, so we had to come back. We’re going to the museum next week to see dinosaur bones!”
“That sounds exciting.”
“It’s going to be amazing. They have a real T. Rex skeleton. A real one!” She bounces on her heels while Daria signs the paper. “Oh! I almost forgot!”
She digs into her backpack and produces a crumpled piece of paper, which she thrusts toward me with both hands.
“I remembered I made this yesterday at school. I was going to give it to you when I got home, but now you can have it early!”
I take the paper and smooth it out. Three figures stand in front of a house, holding hands. A small one in the middle with dark hair, a taller one beside her, and a third figure, the tallest of all, with what appears to be scars drawn on his hands.
“That’s me,” Kira explains, pointing. “And that’s Mama. And that’s you!”
My throat goes tight.
“You drew me?”
“Of course! You live with us now.” She says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “That makes you family.”
I crouch to her level and study the drawing more carefully. The house has a crooked chimney, and the sun is a yellow blob with uneven rays.
It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve seen in years.
“I love it,” I tell her. “Thank you, Kira.”
She beams at me, then Daria’s hand lands on her shoulder.
“We need to go, malyshka. Say goodbye to Pyotr.”
“Bye, Pyotr!”
She races toward the door, and Daria follows. But she pauses in the doorway and glances back at me, her eyes dropping to the drawing still clutched in my hands.
“She’s getting attached,” she comments.
