Mara’s scream.
I open my eyes.
I look at the frosted window, and I breathe, and I don’t let myself finish that thought because finishing it will take me somewhere I can’t come back from right now, and I need to come back from everything that happens in this room, so I press my hands against my stomach, and I look at the wall, and I wait.
The man who comes in is not what I expect.
He’s maybe fifty, slight, with the kind of face that belongs in an accountant’s office, wire-rimmed glasses, a dark coat, and shoes that have been recently polished. He sits down across from me, and he puts his hands flat on the table, and he looks at me withan expression of genuine regret that makes my skin crawl more than anything else has so far.
“Mrs. Petrov,” he says. “I want to begin by telling you that you are not going to be harmed. You have my word on that.”
I look at him.
“We understand your situation,” he says. “We are not unreasonable people. This does not have to be a difficult conversation.”
“Then let me go,” I say.
He tilts his head slightly. “We need one thing from you. One piece of information. You give it to us, you go home today. Your husband gets you back, everyone moves forward.” He folds his hands together on the table. “There is a person inside the Petrov organization who has been coordinating with one of our contacts. Passing information, facilitating certain arrangements. We need that person’s name.”
I look at him, and I try to understand what he is asking me.
“You were Roman Petrov’s personal secretary for two years,” he says. “You managed his correspondence, his schedule, his communications. You know the names of every person with access to his operational infrastructure.” He pauses. “We are not asking you to betray your husband. We are asking you for a name that, frankly, you already know.”
I look at the table between us.
I think about two years of correspondence. Names on documents. Meeting schedules. The men who came through Roman’s office, the calls I routed, the emails I managed. I think about what I actually know versus what this man believes Iknow, the gap between the view from outside a door and the view from inside a room, and I understand something with total clarity.
I do not have what he wants.
I know schedules. I know which council members take their calls before noon. I know who sends flowers to Roman’s office on his birthday and who doesn’t. I know the names on the legitimate side of his world, the side that appears on letterhead.
I don’t know what happens underneath it. Roman has kept me outside that world deliberately for two years, and I didn’t fully understand why until right now, sitting in this room across from a man who believes I know everything and would not believe me if I told him I do not.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say.
He looks at me with the patient expression of someone who expected this answer and is not bothered by it. “Mrs. Petrov?—”
“I managed his calendar,” I say. “I booked his restaurants. I confirmed his meetings. I don’t know anything about the operational side of his organization because he didn’t tell me, and I didn’t ask.”
“You are his wife.”
“I was his secretary before I was his wife. For two years. He kept those worlds separate, and so did I.”
He looks at me for a long moment. The regretful expression doesn’t go anywhere. He uncrosses his hands, crosses them again, and looks at the table between us. “I’m going to give you some time to think,” he says. “We are not in a hurry.”
He stands up.
“I’m pregnant,” I say.
He stops.
“I’m almost twelve weeks. Whatever you need from me, whatever you think I know, I need you to understand that there is a child involved in this room.” I hold his gaze. “I am asking you to factor that into whatever comes next.”
He looks at me for a moment. Something moves across his face that is not the regret from before, something less rehearsed.
“You will not be harmed,” he says again. Then he goes out, and the door closes, and I hear the lock turn.
I sit with both hands on my stomach, and I look at the frosted window, and I breathe.
