She glances at me over her shoulder. “Why do you want to know?”
“I’m trying to understand your schedule. Dmitri wants me to monitor your movements, remember?”
A muscle ticks in her jaw, but she answers. “Four students most days of the week. Two in the afternoon, and two in the early evening. More during summer when school’s out.”
“And that’s enough to cover your expenses?”
“It’s enough to keep us fed and housed.” She stirs the pot with more force than necessary. “We are not living in luxury, as I’m sure you’ve noticed.”
I have noticed. That’s the problem.
Her phone vibrates on the counter, and I watch her body go rigid. She glances at the screen, and the color drains from her face so quickly that I think she might faint. Even from my position, I can make out “Blocked Number”.
“I need to take this.” She’s already moving toward the bathroom.
“Who is it?”
“No one. Just... give me a minute.”
She disappears into the bathroom and shuts the door, but the apartment walls are thin. I can hear her voice, though I can’t make out the words. Whatever she’s saying, it sounds like pleading. Like bargaining.
When she emerges a few minutes later, her hands are shaking again, and her eyes are red-rimmed. She doesn’t look at me as she crosses back to the stove to stir the kasha.
“Everything okay?” I ask, though I already know the answer.
“Fine.” Her right eye twitches a bit. “Just a wrong number.”
We both know she’s lying, but I don’t push yet. I file the information away and watch her slowly rebuild her composure.
Daria walks Kira to school after breakfast while I stay behind to continue sweeping the apartment. I check behind every piece of furniture, inside every vent, and under every loose floorboard. I find dust and old receipts and a collection of Kira’s drawingstucked behind the radiator in the living room—a fire hazard waiting to happen—but no more surveillance equipment.
Whoever planted that camera in Kira’s room either only cared about watching the child or knew the other rooms wouldn’t yield useful intelligence.
Neither possibility sits well with me.
Daria returns before ten, slightly out of breath from the cold. She sheds her coat and heads to the piano, where she runs her fingers over the keys in a quick warmup scale.
“My first student arrives in twenty minutes,” she informs me. “You’ll need to make yourself scarce.”
“I’ll be in the spare room.”
“Good.”
But I don’t go to the spare room. Instead, I position myself in the hallway where I can observe without being seen. I watch her teach. To see if the woman who flinches at blocked phone calls is the same woman who stands accused of betraying her family.
The student is a boy of about eight, accompanied by his mother, who exchanges pleasantries with Daria before settling into a chair by the door. The lesson begins with scales, then moves to a simple piece that the boy murders with enthusiasm but little skill.
Daria doesn’t seem to mind. She sits beside him on the bench, encouraging, correcting his finger placement, and praising every small improvement. Her voice is warm, free of the fear and defensiveness that colors every interaction with me.
“That’s wonderful, Misha,” she tells him after a particularly rough passage. “You’ve been practicing. I can tell.”
The boy beams under her attention and sits up straighter before attacking the next section with renewed energy.
I watch three more lessons go the same way. Each student receives the same patient instruction and encouragement that draws music from reluctant fingers.
By the time the last mother collects her daughter and hands Daria a small fold of rubles, I’ve learned more about her than any surveillance file could tell me.
This woman loves teaching. She loves children. She lights up in their presence in a way that seems impossible to fake.
