Heart pounding, I watch through the window in Slavaâs room as Pavel loads a suitcase into the backseat of a sleek white SUV and gets behind the wheel. A minute later, Nikolai approaches the car. Dressed in a sharply tailored gray suit and pin-striped white shirt, with a laptop bag slung over one shoulder, he looks every inch the powerful businessman. Moving with his customary athletic grace, he climbs into the front passenger seat and shuts the door.
I let out a shaky breath, my pulse slowing as the car pulls away and disappears down the winding driveway. I have no idea how I feel about his departure or what happened in his office. Had he been about to kiss me? If I hadnât said his name, would he haveâ
âChloe?â a small, high-pitched voice pipes up, and I turn with a smile, putting all thoughts of my employer on hold.
âYes, darling?â
Slava holds up a box of LEGO pieces. âCastle?â
I grin. âSure, letâs do it.â I love that he remembered the word, and that he feels comfortable enough to call me by my name. He really is one of the brightest kids Iâve ever met, and I have no doubt Iâll have a lot to report to Nikolai when he calls me.
My heart rate speeds up again at the thought of talking to him on video, and I busy myself by taking the LEGO pieces out of the box. A part of me is glad that Nikolai is gone⦠that for the next few days, I wonât have to contend with his dangerous, magnetic presence. But another, weaker part of me is already mourning his absence. The overcast sky outside feels darker, grayer, the house emptier and colder.
Itâs as if something vital has disappeared from my life, leaving behind a strangely hollow feeling.
I spend the rest of the morning with Slava, playing various educational games, and then we eat lunch in the dining room, just the two of us, with Lyudmila bringing out all the dishes.
âHeadache,â she informs me when I ask about Alina. âYou eat yourself, okay?â
I nod, biting back a laugh at the unfortunate phrasing. Maybe Pavelâs wife would be open to some English lessons while Iâm here? Iâll have to ask her at some point. For now, I concentrate on giving Slava a generous serving of everything on the table and then doing the same for myself while Lyudmila disappears into the kitchen. I donât see her again until dinnerâwhich Alina also skips, leaving me to dine alone with my charge.
I donât mind it. In fact, itâs a relief. Despite the fancy clothes Slava and I put on as per the âhouse rules,â the dinner feels infinitely more casual with just the two of us, the atmosphere lacking all the strain and tension that the Molotov siblings bring with them. I play with my food, making Slava giggle like crazy, and I continue teaching him words for various food items, along with basic mealtime phrases. Before long, heâs asking me in English to pass him a napkin, and by utilizing a lot of gestures and facial expressions, we succeed in discussing which foods he likes the most and which ones he dislikes.
Itâs not until Lyudmila takes Slava away to put him to bed and I go up to my room that I realize I need Alina. Sheâs the one whoâs supposed to set up an account for me on the secure videoconference platform. I doubt Nikolai will call me tonightâheâs most likely still in the airâbut he could easily call me tomorrow morning. Or in the middle of the night, if thatâs when he lands.
Still, I donât want to bother her if sheâs not feeling well.
I decide to begin by setting up the computer itself. Itâs a sleek, high-end MacBook Pro, and as I unpack it from the box, I realize Iâve never had a laptop this expensive. Itâs hard to believe Nikolai just had it sitting in his desk drawer like a spare pen.
Then again, why am I surprised? This family clearly has money to burn.
I boot up the laptop and go through the new computer setup routine. But when I try to get on Wi-Fi, I canâtâitâs password protected. I need Alina for this too. I suppose I can ask Lyudmila, but sheâs putting Slava to bed right now, and thereâs no guarantee sheâd know the password, given how paranoid the Molotovs are about security, digital and otherwise.
Blowing out a frustrated breath, I close the laptop. Without internet, itâs pretty much useless.
I guess tonight I get to laze around and watch TV.
I change out of my evening gown and into a pair of butter-soft leggings and a long-sleeved cotton teeâboth new acquisitionsâand make myself comfortable on the bed. Turning on the TV, I locate a nature show and spend the next hour learning about the plains of the Serengeti. The David Attenborough narration is as magnificent as always, and I find myself completely absorbed by the story unfolding on the screen, my mind calm for the first time in weeks. Itâs only when Iâm watching a lion stalk a gazelle that my thoughts turn to the killers hunting me, and my disquiet returns.
I still donât know who those men are or what they wanted with my momâwhy they killed her and made it look like a suicide. The most logical possibility is that she walked in on them while they were burglarizing the apartment, but then why was she wearing her robe like she was relaxing at home? And why didnât the police notice signs of forced entry or things missing?
At least I assume they didnât notice it. If they did and ruled her death a suicide anyway⦠well, that raises all kinds of other questions.
The other possibility, a likelier and much more disturbing one, is that they came specifically to kill her.
Turning off the TV, I get up and walk over to the window to stare out at the rapidly darkening landscape. My chest is tight, my mind churning anew. Iâve racked my brain ever since it happened, trying to think of reasons why someone might want to kill my mom, and I canât come up with a single one. Mom wasnât perfectâshe could be sharp-tongued when tired, and she was prone to bouts of depressionâbut Iâd never seen her be deliberately mean or unkind to anyone. For as long as I can remember, sheâd worked two or more jobs to support us, leaving her with little time and energy to socialize and make friendsâor enemies. To the best of my knowledge, she didnât even date, though men hit on her all the time.
She was beautiful⦠and barely forty when she died.
My throat cinches tight, a stinging pressure building behind my eyes. Not only have I lost the only person in the world who loved me unconditionally, but her murderers are out there, free. The police didnât believe a single word I told them, the reporters I contacted didnât reply to my emails, and nobody is looking for my momâs killers. Nobody is hunting them like the rabid animals they are.
Instead, the killers are hunting me.
Fuck this shit.
Pivoting on my heel, I stride to the bed and grab the laptop. I canât sit around, watching TV like my world didnât crumble a month ago. Not when Iâm finally safe and have a computer on which I can do research at my leisure. For weeks, Iâve lurched from one crisis to another, all my energy focused on survival, on escape, but things are different now. I have a full belly, a safe place to rest my head, andâif I can only get that Wi-Fi passwordâan internet-connected laptop. No more sneaking into a library in some small town to huddle over their slow, ancient desktops while looking over my shoulder every minute; no more dashing off hastily composed emails before running to my car.
Here, in the privacy of my room, I can take my time and look for evidence to back up my claims, for some kind of proof to take to the police.
I can try to solve the mystery of Momâs murder and turn the tables on her killers, make them be the ones who have to run.