19
LUCA
The clockon my desk reads 12:47 when I hear her footsteps.
I know it’s Anna before she reaches my door. The staff moves differently, quicker and quieter. Her footsteps are slow, hesitant. She stops outside my study. I can hear her breathing on the other side of the wood.
She doesn’t knock immediately. Just stands there. Deciding whether to come in or walk away. I set down the shipping manifest I’ve been staring at for the past twenty minutes without actually reading and wait.
Finally, she knocks. Soft. Almost apologetic.
“Come in.”
The door opens, and she’s there. Barefoot, hair loose and tangled like she’s been running her hands through it. She’s changed out of the dress from dinner into gray sweatpants and an oversized sweater that hangs off one shoulder. Her eyes are red-rimmed. Swollen from crying or exhaustion or both.
She looks wrecked.
“The twins?” I ask.
“Asleep. Finally.” Her voice is hoarse. Raw. “Mila cried herself sick. Had to get her a bowl because I thought she’d throw up. Alexei wouldn’t unlock the bathroom door for an hour. Just sat in there in the dark refusing to come out.”
She walks into the room but doesn’t come close. Just stands near the bookshelf, running her fingers along the spines without really seeing them.
“I kept trying to explain,” she continues. “Kept trying to find words that would make it make sense to them. But how do you explain to four-year-olds that you’ve been lying to them their entire lives? That their father isn’t dead, he’s just been living in the same house pretending to be their stepfather?”
“You tell them the truth.”
“I tried that. Alexei asked me why I lied. I said I was scared. He asked what I was scared of. I couldn’t answer without telling him his father kills people.” She laughs. It’s a broken sound. “So I just sat there. Silent. Useless. Great parenting.”
I lean back in my chair. “They’ll adjust.”
“Will they? Because right now they look at me like I’m a stranger. Like they don’t know who I am anymore.”
“Give them time.”
“How much time? Days? Weeks? Years?” She turns to face me. “When do they stop looking at me like that?”
“I don’t know.”
“Helpful.”
“You want me to lie to you? Tell you everything will be fine by morning?”
“I want you to tell me something other than ‘they’ll adjust’ and ‘give them time.’ I want actual answers.”
“I don’t have answers. This is new territory for both of us.”
She makes a frustrated sound and goes back to staring at the books. Her fingers trace the leather binding of a volume on maritime law. Back and forth. Back and forth.
“Maxim called,” she says after a moment. “While I was trying to get Mila to stop crying. He called my phone. I don’t know how he got the number.”
“What did he say?”
“That he was sorry for upsetting the children, but not sorry for what he said to me. That he stands by every word. That I trapped you, and everyone knows it.”
“He’s angry.”
“He’s cruel.”
