And shecouldbe mine.
If I’m willing to risk everything for one more chance.
12
SVETLANA
An hour and a terrifying hitchhiking ride later, I’m in a convenience store bathroom, looking at myself in the mirror.
It shows me a stranger's face, pale and drawn beneath the harsh fluorescent lighting that makes everyone look half-dead. I suppose that's fitting, considering I'm supposed to be exactly that—dead, or at least disappeared so thoroughly that it amounts to the same thing. The woman staring back at me has dark circles under her eyes, and there's a tightness around her mouth that never used to be there. I’m wearing the kind of clothing I never would have been caught dead in before—jeans and a long-sleeved shirt purchased from a thrift store nearby with some of the money Kazimir left me with. I’m still pissed with myself for taking it, but I know that it’s a good thing I did. I’d have nothing otherwise. And I need a place to sleep.
I can’t go back to my apartment. I can’t access my accounts. I have no money, no place to go, no identification or cards, and I couldn’t use any of my credit or debit cards anyway without alerting my father that I somehow escaped and got back home. I have one hidden account that was in my name, but there wasn’tmuch in it, and without identification, I have no way of accessing that, either.
I don’t look anything like the former model who hung off Ilya’s arm and went to elaborate events, who designers paid to wear their clothes so I could be seen in public with them. I don’t feel like that woman, either, and truthfully, I don’t know if I ever will again.
I splash cold water on my face, letting the shock of it ground me in the reality of where I am and what I need to do next. Boston. I'm in Boston, a city I once knew intimately, where I had an apartment and a life and a future that seemed secure even if it was built on foundations I'd chosen not to examine too closely. That version of myself feels impossibly distant, separated from who I am by an ocean of trauma and violence.
But I'm here because I survived, because I refused to die in that basement or freeze to death in that forest or disappear into whatever fate Iosef and his men had planned for me. I survived. That has to count for something, even if right now it doesn't feel like much of a victory.
The envelope Kazimir gave me is tucked into my purse, and the money that’s in there is all that stands between me and complete destitution. I feel a spark of rebellion every time I think about using it, but I have no choice, and I know it. I need to get a hotel room somewhere that my father wouldn’t expect me to go, if he were to catch wind that I escaped, and I need to get the documents to replace my I.D. I need a flight out of here and a plan. And I need all of that fast.
The thought of my father sends a cold spike of fear through my chest that has nothing to do with the temperature in this sterile bathroom. Mikhail Morozov, respected businessman, pillar of the Russian community in Boston, the man who smiled at me across the dinner table while he planned to sell me to Iosef Sokolov like I was a piece of property to be liquidated for the bestpossible price. I don't know if he knows I'm alive, if word has reached him about what happened at Iosef's compound, about the bodies and the blood and the fact that no one has found me. I don’t think Iosef will let their deal end so easily if he doesn’t have what he paid for, and as much as I hope my father will assume I must be dead, I know better at this point than to rest on my laurels like that.
I can't go to my old apartment. That's the first place anyone would look, and even if I could get past the doorman—which I probably couldn't, not if my father has already been there, not if he's already spun some story about his poor missing daughter and convinced the building staff to call him if I show up—I have no way in. It’s possible the apartment is gone by now anyway, all of my things boxed up, and the apartment sold.
The thought of strangers going through my belongings, touching my clothes and my books, and all the small personal items that made that space mine makes my stomach turn, but I force the feeling down because it doesn't matter. None of it matters except staying alive and staying hidden until I can figure out what comes next.
I need sleep. I need a shower. I comb my fingers through my hair, try to look a little more presentable, and go out to ask the attendant at the counter if he has any suggestions for a cheap hotel. I don’t sayone that takes cash, but from the look on his face, I don’t need to. He’s well aware from my appearance alone that I’m not in a pay-with-credit-card kind of situation.
“There’s a motel a couple of blocks down the road,” he says, his gaze sliding over me. “But if you’re in a real pinch, I could be a Good Samaritan. I’ve got a basement, and with a little TLC…”
My throat tightens, and I take a step backward. “Thanks,” I manage, spinning on my heel and heading blindly for the door before he can say another word. I fight back the nausea thatsweeps through me at the thought of staying in some strange man’s basement, trapped once again.
I’d honestly rather die.
I end up at the motel he mentioned after walking a couple of blocks, and it’s exactly what I expected from movies and TV—and also the kind of place I never thought I’d personally ever stay at… but back then, I also never imagined running through a Russian forest terrified for my life.
I didn’t ever imagine a lot of the things that happened to me.
I take a deep breath as I walk toward what appears to be the check-in. I can do this. I can stay in a shitty motel and figure out my next move and not fall apart just because everything is harder than I thought it would be. I've survived worse than a cheap hotel room. I've survived things that should have killed me, thatwouldhave killed me if I'd been even slightly less lucky or slightly less stubborn. A motel with thin walls and questionable stains on the carpet is nothing compared to what I've already endured, and I refuse to let this break me, refuse to crumble just because the universe has decided to make things difficult.
The tired, older woman at the desk doesn’t blink when I hand her cash, and she asks for my name, but no ID. I give her a fake name, and she gives me a key with a room number, and… that’s it. I have a place to sleep, even if it’s exactly as depressing as I expected.
I take in my surroundings as I walk up the rickety stairs to 204, looking around the low-slung building with exterior corridors and a flickering neon sign that advertises vacancy and free Wi-Fi. Inside, the room is exactly what I paid for—a bed with a thin comforter, a dresser with a television bolted to the top of it, and a bathroom with a shower that's seen better days. The carpet is worn and stained in places I try not to look at tooclosely, and there's a smell of old cigarette smoke and industrial cleaner that no amount of air freshener can quite mask.
The lock on the door is flimsy, and the door itself could probably be kicked in without too much effort. There's no deadbolt, no chain, nothing that would actually keep someone out if they really wanted to get in. I check the window—it opens, which is good for fire safety but bad for security—and then I wedge the desk chair under the door handle. I've seen that in movies, and it seems like it might buy me a few seconds if someone tries to force their way in during the night.
I have no idea if anyone is coming after me, and I don’t think any of that will really help if they do, but I need to feel like I’m doingsomethingto protect myself while I come up with a plan.
The water pressure is weak in the shower, and the soap makes my skin feel tight and uncomfortable. There’s a tiny bottle of no-brand lotion, and when I sniff it, it smells so strongly of fake flowers that I can’t imagine putting it on my skin. I opt to stay uncomfortable instead, pulling on a pair of sweatpants and a loose shirt I got at the thrift store.
I sit on the edge of the bed and try to think. I need to get out of Boston, that much is clear. Staying here is too dangerous—too many people who might recognize me, too much history that ties me to this place. But getting out requires money and documents and a destination, none of which I have in sufficient quantity.
I need a new identity, a real one—something that will let me open bank accounts and rent apartments and build a life that isn't constantly on the verge of collapse. I need to get far away from the East Coast, somewhere my father's connections don't reach, somewhere I can disappear into anonymity and start over. I need a lot of things, actually, and the list feels overwhelming, like I'm trying to solve a puzzle with half the pieces missing and no picture to guide me.
Right now, the best I can do is try to get my actual documents, and hope that I can think of some way to cover my tracks. Getting a fake identity good enough to last me for the rest of my life is so utterly beyond my scope of knowledge that I don’t even know where to begin.
I spread out the snacks I got at the convenience store—food I would never have eaten before this—and munch on chips while an old sitcom plays in the background for noise. I know I should sit here in silence, so I can hear if there are footsteps or voices approaching my room, but the thought of that makes me feel like I’m going to crawl out of my skin right now. I’ve been on edge for so long, waiting for the next blow, the next demand, the next eager man who wants to use me for his own pleasure, and for just a little while, I want to shut the world out.
