Then we stop, and I am outside the precinct. The cold air bites my face when the door opens, and my heart races so fast I think I might be sick. This is where Aleksander must be. He has to be here.
God, I just want to see him. I can’t get the last image of him out of my mind—him pressed against the metal grate of that police van, rage burning in his eyes as he fought them all just to reach me. He looked feral, unhinged, like nothing in the world couldhold him back. And somehow, that memory—his rage—is the only thing steadying me now.
He will come for me. No matter what, he will come.
I repeat that to myself as they lead me inside, through the glass doors, into a world of white walls and buzzing lights that feel like a different planet.
I was always the good kid. The girl who avoided trouble, who never once got detention in high school, even though I spent hours sitting outside waiting for Nadia to be released from hers. I never thought I’d be here, shepherded down halls like I’ve done something unspeakable.
The motions are mechanical: a headshot, fingers pressed to ink, a holding cell. None of it feels real. My body is just doing what it’s told while my mind runs in a hundred panicked directions.
I’m pacing before I even realize it, the sound of my footsteps sharp against the concrete floor. My hands tremble, and I raise them to my mouth, falling back on an old habit I thought I’d buried years ago—biting at the ragged edge of my nails.
The walls feel closer every second.
I know what comes next. Interrogation. They’ll try to peel me open, pry at the weakest parts of me until I give them what they want.
I need to hold out. I need to be stone. For him.
But I’ve never been good at masks, not the kind that matter.
When they finally come for me, my heart lurches. I smooth my hands over the fabric of my dress as if that could fix the way I feel—like I am all sharp corners and shaking glass.
And as they guide me down the hall, each step closer to that cold room, I whisper to myself like a prayer:He’s coming. Aleksander will come.
The door swings open with a metallic groan, and my stomach drops.
Of course.
The last person I want to see walks in like she owns the room.
Dahlia.
Gone is the soft, forgettable presence she used to wear like armor. Now she’s a wall of steel. An NYPD windbreaker cuts sharp lines over her frame, khakis pressed into precise creases, a badge dangling from her neck like a noose. She sits across from me and lays a manila folder on the table, fat with papers that could be anything—reports, photographs, lies.
For one heart-stopping second, I can’t breathe. Then I force my spine straight.
No. Alek covered every base. There is no evidence. I am the only loose end. And I will not let them use me to unravel him.
She smirks, a predator’s smile, but her eyes are all calculation. “Hello, Lily,” she says, voice smooth, like she’s savoring this moment. “Or should I call you Jessie?”
The name hits me like a slap. My pulse spikes, but I lock it down. She’s looking for a crack, the first hairline fracture in my composure. If she gets it, she’ll wedge it open until I break.
This is a chess game. She made her first move. Now it’s my turn.
I tilt my head and smile back, light and bright like I have no idea what storm she’s trying to summon. “Lily’s fine,” I say,deliberately casual. “Oh my god, Dahlia, I didn’t know you were a cop. That’s so interesting. How long have you been one?”
For a fraction of a second, she hesitates. A flicker of surprise. Everyone underestimates me. I see it in their faces—the girl they thought would crumble under fluorescent lights.
“Eleven years,” she says finally, settling back into her chair, “going on twelve this year. Lily, do you know?—”
“Wow, that’s such a long time,” I cut in, feigning wide-eyed curiosity. “Being a cop here at the… uh, where are we again?”
I let the words drift, airy, as if I’m too distracted to keep track. I am banking everything on this. Let them think I’m ditzy, harmless. Let them choke on their own frustration.
“Ms. Walters, wha?—”
“Mrs. Petrov,” I interrupt again, firm this time. “Don’t worry. Detective Toscani made the same mistake. But it’s Petrov now.”
