I stare at my reflection and wonder how long I can survive between these threats. How long I can keep lying, pretending, and holding myself together when everything around me is falling apart.
For Kira’s sake, I have to find a way.
I just don’t know how yet.
3
Pyotr
The refrigerator contains half a carton of eggs, a wilting head of cabbage, and three containers of leftover soup that look like they’ve been stretched across multiple meals.
I stand in Daria’s kitchen on my first full morning in her apartment, cataloging the contents of her cupboards while she showers down the hall.
The evidence doesn’t match the profile of a woman laundering millions through offshore accounts.
The dishes are chipped and mismatched. The pots and pans show years of heavy use. The pantry holds generic brands and bulk purchases, the kind of careful shopping that speaks to counting every ruble.
If Daria Kozlov is stealing from the family, she’s certainly not spending it here.
I walk into the living room and examine the furniture more closely than I did last night. The couch cushions are worn thin in places, and someone has stitched a tear in the armrest withthread that doesn’t quite match. The coffee table has water rings that no amount of polish can hide. The only thing in this apartment that looks well-maintained is the piano; its keys are polished, and its surface is free of dust.
That piano is her livelihood. Everything else is survival.
Kira wanders out of her bedroom in her dinosaur pajamas, rubbing her eyes and yawning. She spots me standing by the bookshelf and freezes for a moment before her face splits into a gap-toothed grin.
“You’re still here,” she announces, like it’s wonderful news.
“I am.”
“Mama said you’re staying with us for a while. Like a sleepover but longer.”
“Something like that.”
She meanders over to the kitchen table and climbs into a chair with her legs swinging above the floor. “What’s for breakfast?”
“I don’t know. That’s up to your mother.”
“Mama usually makes kasha. But sometimes on weekends we have blini if she has enough flour.” Kira tilts her head and studies me with blue eyes. “Do you like blini?”
“I don’t have strong feelings about them.”
“That’s weird. Everyone has feelings about blini.” She kicks her feet against the chair legs. “My friend Masha says her papa makes the best blini in St. Petersburg, but I think she’s lying, because I’ve tasted them and they’re not that good.”
The bathroom door opens, and Daria emerges in a cloud of steam, her wet hair wrapped in a towel. She’s wearing a faded sweater and yoga pants, and her feet are bare. She pulls up short when she sees me standing in her living room.
“You’re up early,” she observes.
I shrug. “Old habits.”
“Military?”
“Something like that.”
She doesn’t push for details, just moves past me toward the kitchen. “I need to get Kira ready for school and prep for my first lesson. There’s coffee if you want it.”
I watch her wander around the small kitchen, pulling out a pot and measuring oats. Her hands are steady now, unlike last night when they trembled every time she looked at me. Whatever composure she lost in the darkness, she’s rebuilt it in the morning light.
“How many students do you have?” I ask.
