“Anton, wait—”
“—safe,malyshka—promise—”
And then nothing.
The line goes dead.
I stare at the phone. At the call log showing forty-three seconds.
Forty-three seconds.
That’s all I get.
My legs give out. I sink onto the floor, back against the cabinet, phone clutched to my chest.
He’s alive.
He called.
His voice… I heard his voice.
Jasper’s kneeling beside me. “Mary? What happened? Was that—?”
“He’s alive.” The words come out choked. “He called. For forty-three seconds. And then—”
I can’t finish. Can’t breathe. Can’t do anything except cry.
But this time, they’re not sad tears.
They’re relief.
Pure, overwhelming, devastating relief.
Because for forty-three seconds, I heard his voice.
And he said he’s coming home.
That has to be enough.
For now, that has to be enough.
47
Mary
5 days later
The water is supposed to be calming.
That’s what the brochure said.Gentle aquatic exercise for expectant mothers. Reduce stress. Build strength. Connect with your baby.
What the brochure didn’t mention: how awkward it is to be the only pregnant woman in a pool with two six-foot-plus Russian bodyguards sitting in the bleachers ten feet away like they’re watching an Olympic event.
“I look ridiculous,” I mutter to the woman next to me as we do gentle leg lifts in the shallow end.
The woman—blonde, friendly, obviously trying not to stare at Lev and Dima—laughs nervously. “You look fine. Your… are those your brothers?”
“Security.”
