“I know the layout. I know who watches which windows. I know which doors lock from the inside and which rattled when we passed.”
I rub my thumb against the back of my neck.
“You think they won’t wait for you there?”
She blows out a breath, her mouth pressing into a thin line. “You think I woke up today and said, ‘Let’s get chased through St. Petersburg and question where we sleep’? No. I’m not asking for comfort. I’m asking to go someplace I’ve earned.”
“Earned?” I blurt it out without thinking. I’ll regret it later. “You think that place earned you?” I say.
She meets my eyes without flinching. “Better than hiding elsewhere.”
My voice goes hard. “Better? They tried to corner us out there. At your husband’s funeral.”
“So?” Her voice drops, firm. “We go back and take back control. Not run from every shadow.”
I see the logic. I just don’t like the risk. “That place makes you predictable,” I say. “Predictable gets people killed.”
Her nostrils flare. “So, what?” she asks. “Stay on the move forever? Ghost towns living for the rest of our lives? Is that freedom?”
Her question lands between us. It presses on things I don’t want touched immediately.
“Danger is not the same as control. You’re mistaken,” I say.
“I know what I know,” she tells me, voice steady. Her eyes rest on mine. “And whatever you think I forgot, I didn’t.”
Then she softens, just a fraction. “I’m asking for something that belongs to me.”
I can feel the tension in her shoulders. She steps closer, near enough that I feel her warmth through the coat. I don’t step back, and neither of us mentions how close that is to wanting.
Her voice drops, not soft, just real. “You don’t trust me,” she says.
I don’t deny it. I don’t lie.
“I trust your instincts,” I say, “but instincts aren’t walls.”
She just watches me. “You fear losing control,” she says.
I say nothing. The wind off the gulf cuts around us. Then she reaches up and lightly touches my lips.
“Then take control,” she whispers hotly in my ear. “Show me how to survive. Right here.”
I swallow tightly. “You don’t make it easy,” I say.
Before I can answer, headlights cut through the gray, and Denis rolls up in a dusty Lada. That's just the appearance. Inside, the car is as good as new. Denis sees to it.
"Get in," he says, and we slide into the back seat without a word. He merges into traffic with a grunt, takes the address, and the rest of the ride is silent.
The Lada drops us off at her apartment. I get out first, scan the street, the windows, the cars parked too neatly.
“Go,” I tell her. “Inside. Don’t turn on the lights.” Denis gives a short nod, then pulls away without waiting for thanks.
She hesitates, then moves fast. I follow her up the stairs, hand near my gun, every sense on alert. Ana opens the lock, steps in, walks to a wall, and flicks on a single hall light. It gives more shadow than light. The apartment smells stale, like the rooms haven’t breathed in a long time.
I lock the door behind us and drop the chain. Only then do I breathe. Ana leans against the wall, fingers pressed to her mouth, eyes finally losing their edge. She looks at me like she’s about to say something. My phone buzzes again. I look at it. Council. I silence it.
Her gaze flicks to the screen. “You’re not answering.”
“No.”
