Roman comes in right behind him. He’s got a file in one hand which he drops onto the table with a slap that sends several loose papers fluttering up. I lurch forward and slam my palms down over top of them just in time to stop them from scattering on the ground.
Asshole…
I glance up ready to shoot him a look, but he’s already turned to address the others. “We believe she was either picked up early this morning or sometime late last night.”
Maksim’s chin tilts toward Matvey. “We’ll need CCTV of her apartment building. Find out when she left and whether she was alone or not.”
Matvey pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose and begins typing. “That’s strange… there wasn’t anything suspicious on the cameras this morning. She left for work like normal. Everything looked routine.”
Maksim and Roman share a look.
Roman’s mouth pulls tight. “It’s a possibility…”
Maksim lifts a hand to stroke it along his jawline, muttering a soft “right”before saying, “Track her route from the apartment to the school. See if she was stopped along the way by someone.”
“On it,” Matvey answers, monitors flashing rapidly through security feeds, traffic cams, and GPS overlays. The room glows faintly from the spill of digital light.
Favorite school teacher fiancée? I haven’t heard anyone mention that until now. It sounds too ordinary. What the hell would a school teacher have to do with finding our son?
My fingers drift toward the file before my brain even registers the movement. Around the table the others argue in quick, clipped bursts of Russian. The folder slides closer to me, the paper rasping under my hand. I steal one last look up to make sure no one’s watching me and then peel the top back.
The photograph inside clipped to the top of the stack of papers makes my breath stop.
It’s her.
Not some stranger I don't recognize. It’s the woman who sat beside my son the last time I saw him—the woman whose hand rested over her belly as she watched him play with that wooden train set. The one who picked him up from my arms and pulled him away from me.
In the picture she’s caught mid-laughter, hair pinned back, eyes soft. The angle is different from my memory of her, but the tilt of her head, the way her mouth pulls at the corner, the small dimple in her left cheek… it’s unmistakable.
My stomach drops.
For a second, the room around me dissolves. All of it falls away to a white-noise thrum in the back of my head. What fills the space are a thousand questions. So she wasn’t a caretaker Mikhail had hired to look after my son? Does that make her a willing participant in all of this, then? A pawn like that nurse? Did she know what she was doing when she took my son from my arms, or did she do it with the same blind obedience everyone shows Mikhail and never bothers to ask questions?
Fiancée.
She’s with him.
The single word detonates inside me like a grenade. Anger flares up hot in my chest, bright and sharp, but it’s gone almost as quickly as it comes, cooled by a fresh wave of fear so cold it’s like ice water has been dumped over my head.
The earrings.
The bugs.
Shit.
I shove my chair back hard enough to rattle the table, the legs screeching against the worn wood floor. The noise cuts through the low hum of voices instantly, all five pairs of eyes snapping toward me at the same time.
Maksim says something—my name maybe, or a question—but I can’t hear it over the pounding rush of blood in my ears.
My feet pound across the floorboards as I storm down the hallway. The world tilts around me, the faces of Katya, Andrey, Roman and Matvey flicking past like static images.My only thought is distance. I need to get away before someone says anything else, before the microphones tucked into the backs of these innocuous little earrings send more damning words straight to Mikhail’s waiting ears.
The bedroom door slams behind me. I lock it, twisting the knob until it clicks. The first bang against it makes me jump, heart hammering against my ribs.
“Ivy?” Maksim’s voice drifts in, muffled by the thick wood. “Open the door.”
I don’t answer. I can’t.
I move to the dresser, my reflection staring back at me from the mirror above it with the wild eyes of someone who’s been caught mid-crime. My hands go straight to my ears, fingers fumbling at the small silver studs.
