Page 44 of The Last Dance

There was no scripture, no threats. Just three tight paragraphs, each one more controlled than the last. The first described the room: how he’d prepared it, the paint color, the new locks, the reinforced window.

The second was an account of the past week, including mention of the shooting, references to the police, the media, the “confusion” about the boy’s whereabouts.

The third was a series of sentences so bland they became sinister. He said he understood why the boy had to run. He said that the world was very dangerous. He said that he would come when the boy was ready, and not before. He said, “I want you to be safe, and I know the only way to do that is to make sure no one else ever hurts you again.”

It was signed: “With patience and faith—R.”

I read it twice. Then I folded it and set it in my palm, as if weighing it for density.

Iren was watching my face. “You don’t have to say it,” he said. “I know.”

I didn’t know what he knew.

I didn’t like it.

A movement at the periphery—a shift in the doorway. Yuri, silent, not quite in the atrium, but present. He waited. I raised the letter. “For the tech team,” I said. “Full postmark, ink, fiber.”

He stepped forward, took it, and left.

When we were alone again, I turned to Iren. “Why did you wait two days.”

He didn’t flinch. “Because I wanted to know if it would scare me. If it did, I’d burn it. If it didn’t, I’d show you. Once you had it, it wasn’t mine anymore.”

I let the silence draw out, just to see if he’d break it. He didn’t. His face was impassive, but the pulse at his throat was a clean, visible line.

“You shouldn’t hide these things,” I said, not angry, just measured.

He shrugged. “I’m not hiding. I’m compartmentalizing.”

I considered that. “If Parsons finds a way to you, it’s not only you at risk.”

That landed, but he just nodded. “Then next time I’ll bring it straight to you.”

“Good,” I said. “Because from now on, anything that arrives for you comes through me.”

He snorted, not amused. “That’s not how mail works.”

“It is now,” I said.

He looked at me, and for the first time in days, there was something almost alive in his eyes. “You can’t protect everything, Vadim. Some things are supposed to reach me. Some things, I need to see for myself.”

I let the argument build in my mind. Then I let it go. “Fine. You read it. But then you bring it to me. No delay.”

He chewed his cheek, considered it. “What if I want to keep something private?”

“That’s what the shredders are for,” I said.

He rolled his eyes, a full-body gesture. “You’re not my dad.”

“I’m not your anything,” I said. “But I’m the only person in this house who wants you alive more than he wants you quiet.”

That stopped him. He considered the words, weighed them, then nodded. “Okay, but I keep my books.”

I gestured to the stack on the bench. “I never wanted them.”

He grinned, sharp and brief. “Most people don’t.”

We sat for a minute, the sound of the estate ticking down to the hour. Somewhere, a clock chimed eleven.