I lock the phone and set it face down.
Yaromir watches me. “What did he say?”
“Nothing important.”
“Anya.”
“He wants help.”
Yaromir’s face changes at once. “What kind of help?”
“He didn’t say.”
“Is this the first message?”
I hesitate.
His eyes narrow.
“No,” I admit. “Third.”
“Show me.”
I look at him. “No.”
His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t reach for the phone. That matters. A few weeks ago, I would have expected him to take it if he wanted it badly enough.
He doesn’t.
“Your father is not harmless,” he says.
“I know that better than anyone.”
“He could be used.”
“I know that too.”
“Then why hide the messages?”
“I’m not hiding them.” My voice shakes a little. “I’m ignoring them.”
The wind moves between us, lifting the edge of the tablecloth. A guard shifts near the hedges, then looks away.
I press my fingers against my glass. “Every time he contacts me, I feel like I’m back in that hotel room. Like I’m barefoot and tired and he’s telling me another version of my life has been sold because he made another mistake.”
Yaromir says nothing.
If he speaks too soon, I might break.
“I don’t want to help him,” I say. “I don’t even want to answer him. And then I hate myself because I still don’t want him dead.”
Yaromir’s expression is unreadable, but his voice is quieter when he answers. “He’s being watched.”
I look up. “By you?”
“Yes.”
“Of course.”
