Chapter 2
NADYA
"Aunty Nadya, will Ded Moroz bring presents even if we don't have a tree yet?"
Anya looks up from her math homework with those enormous green eyes that make refusing her impossible.
She should be focusing, but I indulge her in some pre-holiday cheer.
I sit cross-legged on my sister's living room floor, helping six-year-old Mikhail sound out words in his reading book while Anya works through multiplication tables at the kitchen table.
Their textbooks spread across every surface, pencils scattered between half-empty teacups and the remnants of dinner.
"Ded Moroz doesn't need a tree to find good children," I tell her.
"He follows the trail of excellent grades and completed homework assignments."
Mikhail giggles and points to a picture in his book.
"This rabbit has a hat just like yours, Aunt Nadya."
My knitted cap sits crooked on my head, unraveling at the edges where I've pulled loose threads.
The same navy blue wool our mother bought me three winters ago, before her cancer diagnosis changed everything.
I reach up and touch it softly and smile at him.
My hat is threadbare now, proof that it gets used extensively in Russia's colder months.
"The rabbit looks much more fashionable than I do," I say.
"No way."
Mikhail shakes his blond head seriously.
"You're the prettiest aunt in all of Moscow."
"I'm your only aunt in all of Moscow."
I tickle him, and he giggles again.
"That makes you the prettiest by default," Anya calls from the kitchen, not looking up from her multiplication.
"Basic math, Aunt Nadya."
Irina appears in the doorway wiping her hands on a dish towel.
My sister looks tired, dark circles under her hazel eyes that remind me too much of our mother during those final months at the hospital.
Twelve-hour nursing shifts at Burdenko drain her completely, but she never complains about the work or the patients who depend on her skill.
And I'm grateful that while I've been struggling to find employment, she's been paying the bills.
"Homework finished means bath time," Irina announces.
"Both of you."
"Five more minutes," Mikhail pleads.
"Aunt Nadya was about to read the part where the rabbit finds the magic carrot."
"The magic carrot will still be magic after you've scrubbed behind your ears," Irina replies.
"Go start the water. I'll be there in a moment to help."
The children groan dramatically but gather their books and pencils.
Anya stops to kiss my cheek before following her younger brother down the hallway toward the bathroom.
Their voices fade as they argue about who gets to choose the bath bubbles.
"You're good with them," Irina says, settling into the armchair across from me.
"They adore you."
"They're easy to adore."
"Have you thought more about returning to university? You only have six classes left for your degree."
The conversation we've had dozens of times since our mother's funeral surfaces again.
Irina believes education will provide me security, that my unfinished degree represents opportunity abandoned rather than dreams deferred by necessity.
I loved forensics, but it lost its appeal somewhere in the middle of Mamochka's treatments.
"I've thought about it," I tell her honestly.
"But thinking doesn't pay rent or buy groceries."
I pick my fingernails and try to avoid eye contact, which I'm never very good at.
"You know, we all miss her… even the kids."
Irina's voice grows quiet.
"I think finishing your education would honor her memory. She was so proud when you enrolled in the program."
Our mother believed forensic science would give me stability, maybe a government position with steady income and reliable benefits.
She imagined me working in clean labs, using microscopes and chemical tests to solve crime cases.
Maybe she was living vicariously through me.
"Maybe next year," I say.
"Right now, I need work that pays immediately."
"Which reminds me." Irina straightens in her chair.
"How did the interview go this morning? The cleaning position?"
I'd forgotten about the lie.
This morning, I called three numbers from classified advertisements in Moskovsky Komsomolets, looking for employment that wouldn't require extensive background checks or references I can't provide.
Two positions required experience I lack.
The third requested that I meet someone tonight at an address in Southern Moscow.
"The interview is actually tonight," I tell her.
"Overnight shift work. They want to meet candidates during actual working hours to see how we handle the environment."
Those are all lies too.
I don’t know why the interview is at eleven p.m.
Maybe it's a shut-in or someone who works odd shifts and wants their housekeeper to clean at night.
I'll take anything at this point.
Irina frowns. "That sounds unusual. Most hotels conduct interviews during normal business hours."
"Luxury places operate differently. Twenty-four-hour service means staff availability at all hours."
The explanation sounds reasonable even to me.
"They're willing to pay cash daily, which is exactly what we need right now."
"I don't like the idea of your traveling across Moscow alone at night for a job interview."
"I can't afford to be particular about scheduling." I stand and begin gathering my things.
"The position pays well enough that I could help with the kids’ presents this year."
That argument ends Irina's objections.
She wants Anya and Mikhail to have a proper celebration, complete with gifts under a decorated tree and traditional foods for Novy God.
Neither of us can afford those luxuries on her nursing salary alone.
Not when rent is half her pay and we're already scrimping on day-old food from the market.
"Just be careful," she says.
"If anything feels wrong about the situation, leave immediately."
I promise to call when the interview ends and kiss her goodbye.
The kids’ voices echo from the bathroom as I put on my coat and gather the address information.
Mikhail sings off-key while Anya recites multiplication tables over the sound of running water.
The metro carries me south through neighborhoods that grow progressively seedier as we move away from the city center.
It's a bit of a trip, but I don't have to drive, so I can probably nap to and from work if I get the job.
By the time I emerge at Kashirskaya Station, the streets start to look abandoned.
Streetlights flicker over empty sidewalks while wind howls between concrete apartment blocks built in the seventies.
I check the address twice before entering the building.
There is no doorman or security system, no signs indicating there's even a reputable business here.
It appears deserted.
The elevator smells like urine and cigarette smoke.
Graffiti covers the walls in languages I can't read.
The apartment sits at the end of a dimly lit hallway.
I knock twice and wait, expecting someone to answer and invite me inside for the interview.
When no response comes, I try the door handle.
Unlocked.
I'm getting a bad feeling about it but I push the door open and call out.
"Hello? I'm here about the cleaning position."
The smell hits me first.
It's metallic and thick, coating the back of my throat.
Then I see the blood smeared across the floor in dark, crimson streaks.
So much blood that it pools in the spaces between floor boards and puddles in thick globs that are coagulating.
It's nothing I haven’t seen in textbooks and crime scene reenactments, but in real life it's shocking as hell.
A man lies face-down near the kitchen doorway.
He's middle-aged, wearing expensive clothes that can't disguise the bullet hole in the back of his skull.
His arms are spread at unnatural angles, fingers still gripping what looks like a briefcase.
All of this happens in such a short amount of time, I can barely breathe or try to scream, but my hands react like lightning, shaking as I fumble for my phone.
The police emergency number, 102, appears on my screen as I begin to dial, but a dark voice makes my blood run cold.
"I wouldn't do that if I were you."
The voice comes from behind me with such sinister control, it instantly paralyzes me.
I spin around to find a man stepping out of the shadows near the apartment's entrance.
Tall, broad-shouldered, with pale gray eyes that examine me the way a butcher studies livestock.
Dark hair, trimmed beard, expensive black clothes that fit too perfectly to be coincidental.
He holds a pistol pointed directly at my chest.
"You're not here for an interview," he says, closing the apartment door behind him.
"You've just been hired."