Someone heard.
That breaks me loose. I look down once more at Leonid’s body, at the red stains on my dress, at my shaking hands.
Then I run.
I don’t look back to see if the man follows. I don’t stop when my ankle twists in one of the stupid heels. I tear through the dressing rooms, grab my bag my locker, shove open the first door I find, and stumble into the cold air behind the club.
The alley spins around me.
I keep running.
8
YAROMIR
By the secondday after the wedding, the city is already full of rumors. Anya Sokolova ran because she panicked. Anya Sokolova ran because Dmitri insulted her. Anya Sokolova ran because she had a lover. Anya Sokolova ran because her father’s debts finally came for her.
People are always comfortable inventing stories about women who are not there to defend themselves.
I don’t care about the rumors. I want facts.
So I send men.
Not to kick doors in. Not yet. That draws attention, and attention makes frightened girls disappear faster. I send them to the kinds of places a woman runs to when she has cash, pride, and no plan.
Pawn shops. Cheap hotels. Cash-only rooms. Train stations. Pharmacies that rent upstairs rooms without paperwork. Small restaurants that pay staff under the table.
On the third evening, Viktor comes to my study with a name.
“Old jeweler near the eastern market,” he says. “He bought a diamond bracelet from a girl matching her description.”
I look up from the papers on my desk. “When?”
“Two days ago.”
“Did she give a name?”
“No. Paid in cash. Kept her scarf up. He said she looked tired and nervous.”
I lean back in my chair.
Tired and nervous.
It irritates me that those are the words I notice.
“What bracelet?” I ask.
Viktor places a photo on my desk.
I recognize it. Not because it matters, but because Dmitri has predictable taste. Thin diamonds, delicate clasp, expensive enough to apologize with but not personal enough to mean anything.
A guilt gift.
“She sold this?”
“Yes.”
“Only this?”
