I’ve touched plenty of women. I’ve made them come, made them scream, and made them forget their names. But I’ve never had one look at me the way Daria did when she came back to herself. Like I was something more than a weapon. Like I was safe.
The thought unsettles me.
I barely slept last night. I saw her every time I closed my eyes. The curve of her neck when she tilted her head. The way her lips parted when I slid my fingers inside her. The flush that spread across her chest as she fell apart.
I got up twice to check the locks, because I needed something to do with my hands.
This morning, she acted like nothing happened. She made breakfast for Kira, helped her daughter with homework, and taught two piano lessons. Normal. Routine. Like I hadn’t made her come on her kitchen floor while she gasped my name.
Maybe compartmentalizing is how she survives. Putting things in boxes and shoving them into corners where they can’t hurt her.
I understand that better than she knows.
My phone goes off on the nightstand, and Dmitri’s name flashes across the screen. I stare at it for a moment, letting it ring twice before I pick up.
“Report.”
His voice snaps me back to the job I’m supposed to be doing while I’m distracted by the woman I’m investigating.
“I’ve completed a second thorough search of the apartment.”
“And?”
I think about the burner phone hidden in her drawer, the stack of cash behind her winter coats, and the ledger page I found yesterday. I’ve been trying to make sense of it.
The evidence is damning on the surface. Any investigator would take one look and declare the case closed, but something nags at me.
I’ve turned it over in my head for the past twenty-four hours, building a theory I’m not sure Dmitri wants to hear. What I’m about to suggest could sound like I’ve lost my objectivity, letting a pretty face and a sad story cloud my judgment.
Maybe I have, but I’ve been doing this work long enough to trust my instincts, even when they lead somewhere inconvenient.
“I found evidence,” I tell him. “A burner phone with calls from a blocked number, some cash with sequential serial numbers, and a page from a ledger listing flagged account numbers. Everything an investigator would need to condemn her.”
Dmitri sighs, no doubt from the burden of what he thinks he will need to do to his cousin to make a point. “Then it sounds like we have our answer.”
“I’m not sure we do.”
When Dmitri speaks again, his voice has cooled by several degrees. “Explain.”
“The evidence is too clean. Everything was gathered in one location, waiting to be discovered. You and I both know that real criminals don’t operate like that. They scatter their tracks.”
“Maybe she got careless.”
“She’s the opposite of careless. This woman counts every ruble, mends her own clothes, and organizes her closet by season. Someone that meticulous doesn’t leave incriminating evidence in her underwear drawer.”
“People make mistakes under pressure.”
I turn away from the window and run a hand through my hair. “I’ve been doing this work for years, Dmitri. I know what planted evidence looks like. This was staged.”
“What are you suggesting?”
“Someone wants her to look guilty. Someone who knows what kind of evidence would condemn her and had access to plant it in her home.”
Dmitri goes quiet again. I can picture him in his study, running through the same scenarios I’ve been running for days. Weighing evidence against instinct and facts against feelings.
“You’re asking me to ignore evidence that ties a family member to crimes against us.”
“I’m asking you to give me more time to find out who put it there.”
