Chapter 7 Ivy
IVY
Two days. That’s how long I’ve been stuck in this beige box the FBI calls a “safehouse”. Two days of pacing across cheap carpet, eating stale takeout, and pretending that the locked doors and barred windows make me safer.
They took my phone the moment I got here. No calls. No texts. No scrolling. No checking email. No homework, no assignments, no connection to the real world. Just silence. The laptop they gave me is locked down tighter than Fort Knox. No internet, no way to even Google something harmless.
Which means I can’t tell my mom what’s happening.
Not that she’d care. We hardly talk anymore, except for the occasional birthday text or a perfunctory “hope you’re doing well” at Christmas.
Still, a part of me aches with the need to hear her voice—even if it’s cold, even if it’s dismissive—just to feel like I have family in this mess.
Frank, though. God, Frank. He must be losing his mind.
He probably thinks I’ve been kidnapped, or worse.
He doesn’t even know where I am, and the FBI won’t let me reach out.
He’s probably calling every hospital in the city, or showing up at Otrava like he’s ready to tear the club apart looking for me.
I close my eyes and rub the ache between them, wishing I could tell him I’m okay. Wishing I believed it myself.
Tomorrow, I’m supposed to go before a judge in a closed court and tell him what I saw—the execution.
My stomach twists just thinking about it.
My word against a monster like Vadim’s. The agents keep saying I’ll be protected, that they have contingencies, that the system will hold.
But when I close my eyes at night, I see that gun, I hear the sound it made, the way the man fell and blood pooled around his head, and I wonder if testifying will make any difference at all.
Or if it will put me in that much more danger.
The TV in the living room is stuck on basic cable. I flip channels out of boredom and regret it almost instantly.
“…the latest in the brutal killing outside the exclusive club, Otrava. Sources say authorities may have a witness…”
The anchor’s voice drops, like she’s savoring the word. Witness.
Ice floods my veins.
“They wouldn’t,” I whisper, leaning closer to the screen. They wouldn’t actually announce that.
But of course they would. Reporters don’t care who gets burned.
My fingers dig into the couch cushion. Every muscle in my body coils tight, like the news anchor might reach through the screen and point straight at me. If Vadim’s people are watching, if they even suspect someone saw…
I click the TV off so fast the remote nearly slips from my hand. The silence after the anchor’s voice is deafening, heavy in the little living room. My pulse is still racing. I can’t sit here alone, trapped with my thoughts gnawing at me.
Muffled laughter drifts from the kitchen. The agents.
I drag myself up and wander toward the sound. Three of them sit around the square dining table, a deck of cards spread out, empty coffee mugs scattered between them. The yellow overhead light makes the room feel warmer than it really is.
“Look who decided to crawl out of her cave,” Agent Torres says with a grin, tossing down a card. He’s the youngest of the bunch, maybe mid-thirties, hair too long for FBI standards, but he wears his badge like he was born with it.
“Don’t tease her,” Agent Morgan chides gently.
He sits across from Torres, broad-shouldered, gray at the temples, the kind of calm that feels unshakable.
His voice lowers when his eyes meet mine.
“You shouldn’t believe half of what you hear on the news, Ivy.
They’ll say anything to get a story, and most of it’s speculation. Don’t let it rattle you.”
I nod, hugging my arms to my chest. “It’s hard not to. When they said there was a witness…” My throat tightens. “It felt like they were pointing right at me.”
Graham, the third agent, leans forward in his chair.
He’s stockier, with kind eyes that soften when he speaks.
“Nobody out there knows your name, and we’re not about to let it slip.
What matters is tomorrow. That’s when you’ll tell your side, and it won’t be to reporters—it’ll be to a judge, in closed court.
Controlled, quiet. Nothing like what you’re imagining. ”
My fingers twist together. “So, what happens? I just… walk in and say what I saw?”
“Pretty much,” Morgan says. “You’ll be escorted in, no cameras, no press. The judge will ask you questions, maybe the prosecutor too. Just keep your answers simple and truthful. That’s all anyone can ask of you.”
Torres shoots me a quick smile. “It won’t be like the TV show Law & Order, if that’s what you’re thinking. Nobody’s going to shout ‘objection’ every two seconds. Just straight questions, straight answers. You’ll be fine.”
Their reassurance eases some of the tightness in my chest. For the first time in two days, I feel like maybe I can breathe without the walls closing in.
Morgan shuffles the deck of cards in his hands, the sound a steady and oddly calming rhythm. “You want to sit with us a while? Take your mind off things? Couldn’t hurt to learn a new skill.”
I hesitate, glancing at the spread of cards on the table. “I don’t really know how to play.”
“Perfect,” Torres says, leaning back with a grin. “Graham doesn’t either, and he’s been losing all night.”
Graham snorts, tossing a peanut at him. “Ignore him. We’ll teach you. It’s easy, and trust me—it beats staring at the walls.”
Something in his tone—gentle, inviting—loosens a knot inside me. I drag a chair closer and sit, the warmth of the overhead light settling over my shoulders.
Morgan starts dealing cards toward me. “It’s just gin rummy. We’ll walk you through it.”
As the cards slide into my hands, the weight of the world doesn’t feel quite as heavy. For a few minutes, at least, I can pretend this is just an ordinary night.
Later that night, I push myself off the couch and head for the tiny bedroom they stuck me in.
Twin bed, scratchy sheets, one dresser. I flop down and stare at the ceiling.
The hum of the heating system rattles in the vents.
My head aches from the pressure of too many thoughts, too many fears with nowhere to put them.
Eventually, exhaustion wins. I drift, not quite asleep, not quite awake.
Something wakes me.
Not a sound, exactly. More like a shift in the air, the faint prickle of awareness crawling over my skin. My eyes snap open.
The house is quiet. Too quiet.
Then, hushed voices. Male. Urgent. I slip out of bed and pad barefoot to the door, pressing my ear against the wood.
“…movement outside.”
“Could just be a deer.”
“No. Too deliberate.”
My pulse spikes.
The whispering stops, replaced by the muted clink of guns being readied. Or at least what I imagine it would sound like.
Oh, God.
I back away from the door, my heart slamming against my ribs so hard it hurts. My breath comes in quick bursts. The taste of bile burns the back of my throat.
A sharp crack splits the night. Gunfire. I’d know that sound anywhere. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to get it out of my head. The night Vadim shot that man echoes in my thoughts day and night, follows me in my dreams, and the sound of that gun reverberates in my mind.
It’s the same sound I just heard.
I choke on a scream and slap a hand over my mouth. The sound is everywhere—shouts, boots thudding, bullets hitting walls. Splinters shower across the floor.
The agents bark orders, their voices overlapping with the chaos outside. I press myself into the corner, knees to chest, as though making myself smaller will make me invisible. My stomach twists with a sickness so sharp I gag, swallowing hard against it.
I think of Frank. Of how I never got to tell him goodbye.
I think of my mom, though the ache there is different—emptier.
And then, for reasons I can’t explain, I think of my father.
The father I hardly knew. The one everyone told me was gone.
But in this moment, I want him. I want the impossible—a strong pair of arms pulling me out of this nightmare, a voice saying he’ll make it right.
The desperation crashes over me, hot and humiliating.
Something small and hard knocks against my foot. I glance down.
Another carving.
Wooden, delicate, smoothed by careful hands. A bird this time, wings spread as if ready to take flight.
My breath catches. Whoever’s leaving these—they’re here. Watching. But are they friend or foe? My fear tangles with a thin thread of hope, confusing and wild.
A bullet shatters the window down the hall. I scream this time, the sound torn from me before I can stop it. The door to my room bursts open and two agents rush in.
“Move!”
Hands grab me, pulling me up, shoving me toward the hall. My legs barely work. The air reeks of gunpowder and smoke. Shots ring out outside the walls, each one making me flinch harder.
They shield me with their bodies, ushering me down the hallway toward the back exit. Bullets slam against the siding, the sharp ping of ricochet bouncing in my skull. My ears ring, my chest heaves, my stomach churns so violently, I’m not sure I can keep going.
But I don’t have a choice.
We hit the back door and it blows open into the icy night. More shouting. More gunfire. My bare feet slip on the frozen ground as the agents push me forward, blocking me from every angle.
“Keep your head down!” one of them yells.
I do. Tears streak down my face, hot against the cold air. My teeth chatter from fear, not the temperature.
They half-drag, half-carry me toward a dark SUV, bullets still popping in the distance. The wooden bird digs into my palm where I clutch it, desperate for something to hold on to.
And then I’m shoved inside, the door slamming shut, the engine roaring to life.
The last thing I see as the SUV tears away is the glow of the safehouse behind me, windows broken, shadows moving across the snow.
We’re not safe. Not anywhere.