I just lock the screen fast, like that might stop the words from burning a hole through my jacket.
I hear Yelena’s footsteps returning down the hall, and I quickly set the book on the shelf. She appears in the doorway, giving me a small nod.
“The children are in bed,” she says. “Would you like tea?”
It’s the closest thing to warmth I’ve gotten from her since I arrived. The unexpected kindness makes my chest hurt.
“No, thank you. I think I’ll just go to bed.”
She studies me, and for a second, I wonder if she sees it—the fear, the panic, all the things I’m trying to hide.
“You’re good with them,” she says finally. “The children.”
I shrug, aiming for nonchalance. “They’re good kids.”
“Yes.” She nods. “Not many women would take to them so quickly.”
It’s not a question, but I answer anyway. “I practically raised Julian and Lila. Not so different.”
“And yet, very different.”
We stand there, the silence stretching between us. I want to tell her. I want to ask for help, for advice, for anything.
But I can’t. Not when Julian and Lila’s safety hangs in the balance.
“Konstantin called,” she says suddenly. “While you were reading to Alya.”
My heart stops, then races double-time. “Oh?”
“He wanted to know if everything was all right here.” Her eyes study me carefully. “I told him yes. Was that correct?”
The question feels loaded, like she’s giving me an opening.
The lie burns my tongue. “Yes. Everything’s fine.”
She nods once, not looking entirely convinced. “He will return when his business is concluded.”
No specifics. Just like Oleg. Everyone in this house trained to reveal nothing.
“Thank you for letting me know.”
“Good night.”
“Good night,” I whisper.
In my room, I sit on the bed and let the panic in.
Friday. 12 p.m. Old Marina Car Park, West Exit. Come alone.
Thirty-six hours.
That’s all I have to decide which version of hell I’m walking into.
40
Konstantin
The jet touches down at 11:47 p.m., California time. I’ve been in the air for nearly six hours, and my body is caught somewhere between New York and the Pacific.
