Jasper hadn’t come with them. After their last conversation, he’d kept his distance entirely. All communication now went through Nolan.
Irina slipped an arm under Nina’s and helped her to the door.
“Jasper said you can choose any room,” she told her.“If you need anything bought—just say the word. I’ll take care of it.”
Jasper.
Just Jasper. Not Dr. Garth.
For some reason, it stung. Nina irritably pulled her arm free and walked into the house on her own. Her mood soured instantly, despite the fact that the escape had gone perfectly. Frank had no idea where she was now.
Nina let out a heavy breath and sank into a soft armchair, looking around. The place was warm. Lived-in.
And it belonged to her daughter.
She moved through the house like she was in a museum, afraid to touch anything—afraid of disturbing someone else’s balance.
Modern, expensive paintings lined the walls. Books filled the shelves. By the staircase stood a vase with cotton branches. Nina wanted to brush her fingers over them but didn’t dare.
Irina was always somewhere nearby. Never intrusive. Never asking questions. She brought pills, water, checked Nina’s blood pressure—then went back to her phone, typing at an astonishing speed.
Nina was a model patient. She took her medication on schedule, slept when she was told, pretended she was fine. There were only a few days left in the course—Jasper had written out a detailed treatment plan and added,“Do not miss a single dose.”
Later that afternoon, Nina wandered into the living room and noticed an album on one of the shelves. Old. Fabric cover. Worn corners. Gold-edged.
Her fingers reached for it on their own.
She carried it to the bedroom, closed the door, and sat on the bed.
The first photo was of Lynn.
Tiny. Wearing owl pajamas. Messy hair. A pacifier in her mouth.
Then older. Smiling. A polka-dot dress.
In another photo, Jasper had her on his shoulders, laughing, while Lynn reached for the sky.
Nina turned page after page. Holidays. Ordinary days. Jasper and Lynn in the park, by the Christmas tree, in the kitchen—flour on his nose.
There was so much light in those pictures.
So much love.
And she broke.
First her nose stung. Then a single tear slipped free, and everything collapsed. Nina pressed the album to her chest and cried—silently, into the pillow, like a teenager.
All those years, Lynn had grown up without her. She was a terrible mother. She’d sent her child to an orphanage and pretended she hadn’t carried her for nine months.
Nina didn’t know how much time passed. An hour. Maybe more.
A soft knock sounded at the door.
“Nina, are you alright?” Irina asked quietly, concern in her voice.
Nina wiped her face quickly with her sleeve.
“Yes,” she said. Her voice was hoarse, but steady.“There’s no need to worry.”
