What if it’s all been—?No. He has to be lying. Has to be.
I look into his eyes again, but those eyes—rich, dark brown, like freshly brewed coffee, deep enough to drown in.Fuck.My stomach twists.
No.The killer had blue eyes.Blue.
But what if…?What if I’m wrong?What if it wasn’t blue? What if it was brown?
Shit, what if I’ve been wrong this whole time?
The memory flickers, hazy at the edges now, and doubt creeps in like a poison.
No.I saw it.But the more I look into his eyes, the harder it is to hold on to that certainty. Everything’s starting to blur, and I hate it.
His hands are still on me, one in my hair, the other resting on my neck. It’s looser now, not strangling, but… holding me.I should be paying attention.I should be pushing him off, but my head is spinning like I’ve been yanked underwater.
When the fuck did the hallway start tilting?
“Breathe,krasotka.”
“Don’t.” The word scrapes my throat. “Don’t call me that. Don’t touch me. Don’t—”
Everything tilts sideways. Left becomes down. Up becomes wherever the fuck my stomach went. The only solid thing is his chest against mine, and I hate that I’m grabbing his shirt to stay upright.
“Let go of me.” But my fingers won’t unlock from the fabric.
Hallway walls blur past. Or maybe I’m the one moving. Following? Being led? The world’s gone fuzzy at the edges, like someone dumped static in my brain.
If he didn’t kill Jake, then who—
The ding of the elevator pulls me back.
Where the hell am I?
Before I can process my thoughts, my body is already reacting. I feel the warmth of his hand on my back, gently prodding me forward.
When did we leave the third floor?
I take a hesitant step, then another, my feet moving of their own accord. It’s as if my body has taken over, leading me away from the crumbling truth.
Each step echoes with questions I can’t process yet.
A door opens.
Sunlight hits my face, and the air changes—thicker, warmer, alive with the smell of wet earth and growing things. Glass walls stretch overhead, green shadows dancing across Leonid’s face as he… says something? His lips are moving, but the words don’t compute.
Fourteen years of wrong.
Fourteen years of lies.
Fourteen years of—
“Mommy!” Elijah’s voice slices through the chaos. My head snaps up, vision finally focusing on—
What the actual fuck?
Dmitry is holding my son. No, not holding—my 4-year-old is perched on his massive shoulders like the world’s most dangerous piggyback ride. And in front of them…
I close my eyes for a second, then open them again
