He doesn’t even look at me.
“If you believe he’s capable of that,” I say, my voice shaking, “then you don’t know your own son.”
“I’m afraid it’s you who doesn’t understand what Jax is capable of.” He turns to his father. “What this family is capable of.”
I shake my head. “No. You’re wrong.”
The grandfather watches me.
“He didn’t run,” I whisper again.
Daniel presses the stethoscope to my chest anyway. “Take a deep breath.”
I do, because some reflexes override pride. “He’s missing,” I say. “We need to look for him.”
“He’s not missing. He ran.”
“Stop,” I say.
Daniel pulls the stethoscope from his ears and turns back to his father. “I tried to keep him out of it,” he says to his father. “I tried to give him a different life.”
“He chose wiser.” Jaxwell replies, smooth as polished stone.
Daniel closes his eyes.
“He didn’t run,” I whisper again.
Neither of them argue. They simply don’t believe me.
Millie watches me tie my hair.
“You’re going to put this behind you,” she says firmly. “Even if I have to drag you there myself. Our family worked too hard for this. You worked too hard for this.”
I turn from her.
“Do you hear me?” she presses. “You will go, you will focus, and you will not look back. And in a few months,” she says, selling the lie with a sad little smile, “you won’t even think about him anymore. I promise.”
* * *
As I turn the corner toward the train station, a voice stops me cold. “Ms. Zaitseva.”
“Pitfire—” I spin around.
Ronny stands a few steps behind me, hat in his hands like he’s just stepped out of a funeral. I notice how the sky behindhim is a dark gray, the sun completely hidden by the heavy clouds, matching my mood perfectly.
“Ronny, what are you doing here?”
“I found him.”
A choked sound escapes my throat, and before I can think, I’m running. I throw my arms around him, burying my face in his stiff suit jacket. “You found him? Oh, Ronny, you found him!”
He pats my back awkwardly, his body rigid beneath my hands. The relief I expected to feel isn’t radiating off him.
I pull back, my hands still gripping his arms. “Where is he? Is he okay?” I search his face, looking for the joy, the confirmation that everything is going to be alright. It’s not there. The hope in my chest curdles into dread.
“Ronny?” My voice is barely a whisper. “What’s wrong? Is he… hurt?”
He studies me the way people do when they’re deciding how much truth someone can handle. He gently takes my wrists and removes my hands from his arms.
