“What do you mean? It’s always…” I glanced to the stairs. Iclearly remembered locking the front door after my mother had left yesterday. And this morning, Vero would have left through the garage.
The brush of Nick’s fingertips startled me back to the moment. He reached for a strand of dripping hair, tucking it behind my shoulder before it could soak through the envelope I was holding. “I’m sorry I scared you before.”
“I’m fine,” I said through a shiver.
“You sure you don’t want me to open this mystery package for you before I go? Just to make sure there isn’t anything in it I should be concerned about?” His eyes lit with a dangerous degree of interest.
I moved it behind my back, my face warming. “They’re just copyedits. Really, you can forget this whole incident ever happened.”
“Believe me, nothing about this incident was forgettable. I’ll call you later,” he promised with a smirk. He hollered goodbye to Vero from the foyer, reminding her to lock up after him.
I slipped into my room and shut my door, throwing the envelope on the bed and rubbing my hands on Delia’s towel. It felt cleaner than the envelope with my name written in Irina Borovkov’s handwriting.
I heard the snap of Zach’s high chair buckles in the kitchen, then the scatter of dry Cheerios against the plastic tray. Feet scurried up the stairs, and Vero threw open my door.
“Is everyone gone?” I asked.
She nodded. “What’s in the package?”
We walked to the edge of the bed, staring at the brown envelope. I tore it open and turned it upside down. A long brunette wig spilled out, fanning over the comforter, a business card tangled in its shimmering dark waves. Vero picked it up. “Who’s Ekatarina Rybakov?”
The fine print under the name readAttorney at Law. I shook out the envelope. A handwritten note fluttered out.
Attorney visiting hours daily, 7A.M.—10P.M.
Bowling League practice every Tuesday, 8–10P.M.
“What do you think it means?” Vero asked.
I picked up the wig. The strands fell into place, assuming a familiar shape around my hand. The odd pieces of Irina’s package snapped together with a startling clarity.
“Oh, no,” I whispered. The woman Nick had argued with at Kvass on Saturday night—her name had been Kat. “I think Ekatarina Rybakov is Feliks Zhirov’s attorney.”
A finger of fear trailed down my spine. Irina had no intention of passing a message to Feliks. She was going to make me deliver it myself.
CHAPTER 29
On Tuesday night, Vero stood in front of me in my bathroom and fussed with my hair, her eyes skipping back and forth between the strands of the dark wig and the photo on her cell phone. She held the image of Ekatarina Rybakov out in front of her.
“I’m not sure if this is the dumbest thing you’ve ever done, or the most badass thing you’ve ever done.”
“Definitely the dumbest.” I tried to keep my mouth still as she smeared my lips with deep red lipstick.
“What are you going to do if you get caught?”
Truthfully, I’d been so worried about getting into the jail, I hadn’t even thought about what I would do once I made it inside. But failure wasn’t an option. With both Cam and Theresa missing, Nick would tear the internet apart trying to find a connection between Feliks and the forum, and there was only one person with the power to take it down before Nick found it. “I’m not going to get caught.”
“If you keep fidgeting like that, your wig’s gonna come off, and then yes, you’ll definitely get caught. Hold still,” she said, shoving me back down to sit on the lid of the toilet while she rummaged in her cosmetic bag. “I’ve got some bobby pins in here.”
“No pins.” I’d been in the jail once before with my sister. She’dcome with me one night when Steven had been hauled in, belligerent and drunk beyond reason after he’d picked a fight at a bar. Georgia had signed me in, escorting me past the usual filters so I could wait with Steven until they released him. I distinctly remembered being thoroughly searched. “Pins might set off the metal detector.”
“Then stop messing with it.” Vero swatted my hands away as I tried to slip a finger under the wig to scratch my scalp. “You look great. How’s your accent?”
“Crap. I didn’t think of that.” I cleared my throat, making it low and breathy. “Hello,” I said in my best impression of Irina. “My name is Ekatarina Rybakov.”
Vero grimaced. “You sound like Angelina Jolie and Vladimir Putin made a baby. Just pretend you have laryngitis. Sign in, get through security, and don’t make small talk.”
“Right.”
