Mikel joins me a step behind. The porch boards creak faintly beneath our weight when we climb the steps. I knock once, and the door opens almost immediately.
Marian stands there with one hand resting against the frame, her posture straight and composed in a way that reminds me of Rowan when she decides she’s done waiting for someone to giveher a better answer. The resemblance has always been there, but tonight it’s harder to ignore.
Her eyes move briefly past me, taking in the vehicles parked along the curb and the faint outlines of the men inside them.
“You’ve brought quite a group with you,” she observes.
“Precaution,” I reply.
“I didn’t request that.”
“I know.”
She studies my face for a moment longer before stepping aside. “Come inside.”
Warmth surrounds us the moment we step inside. The house smells of coffee and sweet pastries baked earlier in the evening, with cinnamon and vanilla lingering in the air.
Marian moves toward the kitchen table and rests her hand against the back of one of the chairs, the lamp forming a soft circle of light across the surface while the rest of the room remains dim.
“Where is she?” Marian demands.
“She was taken.”
Her fingers tighten against the wood of the chair. “And the man responsible is still breathing?”
“For the moment.”
She studies me more closely. “You speak about this with remarkable calm.”
“Calm helps,” I reply, resting my hand against the edge of the table.
“My daughter is not part of whatever mess you’ve brought to her door.”
I hold her gaze. “No,” I answer quietly. “She isn’t.”
“You assured me she would be safe around you,” Marian continues, her voice firm despite the tension running through it.
My jaw tightens slightly before answering. “I believed that.”
“That belief does nothing for her tonight,” she counters, her shoulders drawing tighter as she holds my gaze.
I draw a slow breath through my nose. “No,” I admit quietly. “It doesn’t.”
She watches my face, considering the answers rather than simply hearing them.
“Who took her?” she insists.
For a moment, I think about how much to tell her. Then I decide on the truth.
“Arkady Voronin.”
The name means nothing to her, but the tone behind it is enough.
“And who exactly is Arkady Voronin to you?”
“A problem.” I lean back slightly from the table, folding my arms loosely as I meet her eyes.
“That’s an interesting description for the man who kidnapped my daughter.”
