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“What are you going to do with them?”

“Make sure nobody ever sees them again.”

“I really liked this dress,” I say, and my voice does something embarrassing on the last word.

“I'll buy you another one.”

“It's not the point.”

“I know.” He looks at me for a long moment. “Bathroom's down the hall, second door. There are towels. I'll leave something for you to wear outside the door.”

I go.

His bathroom is all dark slate and shimmering glass. The shower is enormous. I turn it on as hot as it will go and stand outside it while it steams, peeling the dress off over my head. There's a smear of red over my chest and stomach.

I step under the water.

It runs pink around my feet. Then lighter. Then clear.

That's when it hits me.

Volkov's face. The sound he made. The way his weight changed in Timur's grip when he stopped being a man and started being a corpse.

I did that.

I put my hand flat on the tiles and breathe.

Papa did things like this. He'd come home late with his knuckles wrapped and kiss us all goodnight and then sit down to breakfast the next morning reading the paper like a man who'd spent the night at the opera.

I used to wonder how he did it, until my thirteenth birthday when he taught me how to use a knife. How to hold it. How to appreciate the weight of it in my hands and what it could do with just a few slick moves.

I stay under the water until it starts to run cool.

When I open the bathroom door, there's a folded pile on the floor. A gray T-shirt. A pair of drawstring sweatpants that are going to be far too big on me. Thick wool socks.

Everything smells like him when I put it on.

I look at myself in the mirror for a long time before realizing I have absolutely no idea what to do next.

So I follow the smell of butter.

He's in the kitchen with his sleeves rolled up, cracking eggs into a pan. There's bread toasting. The kettle's on. He looks up when I come in and goes very still for a second, his eyes moving over me. His clothes. His socks. My wet hair.

Then he goes back to the eggs.

“Sit,” he says. His voice is rougher than it was before I showered.

I sit on the stool at the island where I stood two nights ago and told him there'd be no wedding.

“You cook?”

He slides a plate in front of me. Scrambled eggs, soft and yellow, flecked with dill. Toast with butter. A cup of herbal tea, strong, with lemon.

I didn't think I was hungry. I eat all of it.

He watches me the whole time, leaning against the counter opposite with his arms folded and his split knuckles on full display.

When I've finished, I push the plate away and point at his hand. “First aid kit.”