Chapter 23
23
Chance
S omething is bothering her.
An intrusive thought, I’m sure. Anya does a decent job of keeping her emotions in check, but every now and then, especially when things are good between us, I catch a glimpse of it—the doubt in her beautiful blue eyes.
The fear that it might all just vanish.
“Come spring, we’re going to spend our fair share of evenings in that camp, just so you know,” I tell Anya as we head back to the lodge.
We’re both tired and sweating under our heavy winter gear, but the thought of a hot lunch and a cup of tea waiting for us home adds a spring to our weary steps. I keep her close, making sure she’s got both feet on the ground as we make our way down the trail through the woods.
My gaze is darting everywhere, searching for any trouble that might come our way.
“Is that so?” Anya replies, smiling softly. “Campfires and marshmallows?”
“Campfires, yes. Marshmallows, no.”
“What’ll we nibble on at those campfires then?”
“Mills makes one hell of a cornbread. And he always keeps a stash of his special, cured beef jerky in stock for the camp every summer, without exception,” I say. My mouth is watering at the thought of the cornbread and of a future without the Sokolovs in it. “It’ll put marshmallows to shame, I promise.”
“The sheriff mentioned something about honey-roasted hazelnuts?”
“Honey roasted and salted, yes.”
“Gosh, that sounds delish,” Anya muses. “Actually, anything that’s sweet and salty sounds delish right now.”
“What about salted caramel?”
“What about it?”
“It’s sweet and salty and an American staple. Don’t tell me you’ve never had any.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever had salted caramel.”
“Whoa. How is that possible?”
“You know how my mom was about my figure. Sugar was the literal devil. I had to beg for a slice of bread at the table.”
My blood runs cold, then hot red with fury. “Anya, that’s awful.”
“Aleks used to argue with her. A lot. But I was under strict caloric control once I turned fourteen. And even before, Mom had to check everything I ate. Honestly, I don’t remember eating a lot of things most people would have,” Anya says and sighs deeply. “I do remember marshmallows, but I think… wait, hold on…”
She stops, and I stay close, recognizing the lost gaze.
“You’re remembering something,” I say.
“Yes. I think this whole talk about salted caramel triggered something.”
“We’re in no rush,” I reply and point to a nearby stump. “We can sit down, if you want.”
Anya shakes her head. “No, I’m good. The fresh air is amazing. The movement, the hike. No, just give me a second. Talk to me about the salted caramel.”
I recall one particular outing with my family when we were little boys. “Booker and I were maybe five or six. Nico was the big brother in charge as our parents led the flock across the carnival grounds. I can still smell the buttery popcorn in the machines… the burnt sugar.”
“Oh God, me, too!” Anya gasps. “You were so right about tastes and smells triggering memories.”
“Then tell me what you remember.”
“We’re in a park. I’m ten, I think. Still shorter than Mom, so definitely not an adolescent yet,” she says. “It’s how I keep track of how old I am in these things.”
I chuckle softly. “Smart girl.”
“It’s Mom and me and… Oh, Zoya’s with us. She doesn’t like my mother very much by the looks of it.”
“Why is that?”
“They’re arguing by a cotton candy stand. I wanted the blue one with the unicorn sprinkles, and Zoya gave me five bucks to buy it, but Mom snatched the money out of my hand before I could give it to the guy.”
My stomach churns. Based on how I remember Maria Asimova, I’m pretty sure I know where this story leads, and it breaks my heart every damn time to see the lasting impact a mother’s toxic love has had on her beautiful, perfect daughter.
“Why did she do that?” I ask.
“She said that blue sugar crap would go straight to my ass,” Anya scoffs and shakes her head in dismay. “Why is every memory I have of my mother such cause for misery and distress? It’s like she never loved me.”
“Maria loved you, Anya. She was just…”
Anya frowns as she looks up at me. “She was just what?”
“A deeply unhappy person who was terrible at manifesting the love she felt for her own children, I guess.”
“She was always doting on Aleks.”
“Aleks was the son, the one to inherit the throne. I think a mother’s love can be a complicated thing when she never got the affection she needed from her own parents. Maria went on to perpetuate the same cycle with you. And I’m sorry you were raised like that, thinking the number on the scale matters that much.”
Anya takes another deep breath and allows herself a dry smile. “Zoya told her off, though.”
“When?”
“When Mom said that part about the cotton candy going straight to my ass. Zoya said it would be a good thing. At least then there would be one Asimov woman with an actual ass in New York City.”
I can’t help but laugh. “That sounds like Zoya, alright. That lady packed a punch.”
“You met her, didn’t you? You must have, hanging around with Aleks all the time.”
“We did, yes. But after she moved out of the brownstone, we saw her maybe once or twice a year,” I say. “Zoya is a strong woman. You’re more like her than you think.”
“Strong? Me?”
I playfully rap her on the top of her head. “Well, you are both exceptionally hard-headed. You proved it in a literal sense.” That makes her laugh, a sound I love most. “What else do you remember about Zoya?”
“She had a place in the Hamptons. She said she’d love to take me there in the summer but insisted my mother wouldn’t be invited…” Her voice trails off. She’s figuring something out. “Oh… Chance. Wait. When I… When I was staying with her in Chappaqua sometime last year, she mentioned something about the Hamptons. She said… she said she was never listed as the owner for that property, just like the one in Chappaqua. Zoya sold both properties through a shell company, and she had someone she trusted buy them both, using her cash stash.”
“Which means—”
“If Zoya left Chappaqua because Leo found it, she might’ve headed for the Hamptons house. I specifically remember asking her if Leo were to find the Chappaqua house, then surely he’d check ownership records and figure out the Hamptons place, too, but Zoya said Leo’s not smarter than her. She sold that property a couple of more times. It’s listed under a different owner, someone completely unrelated to the Asimovs or their businesses.”
“This is good stuff, Anya. It might give us a promising lead on your grandmother.”
We resume our walk home. The lodge emerges from between the trees just a few yards away, built on its foundation of river rocks with windows facing each cardinal direction. But the closer we get, the greater the uneasiness grows within me. Either Anya’s fears have rubbed off on me, or I’m just now understanding we won’t be truly safe until Leo Sokolov is dead.
“Do you remember the Hamptons place?”
“Yes. We went there a couple of times in the summer, just Aleks and me. Both were weekend stays. Zoya hosted some interesting parties there. Private affairs. I’m pretty sure she gave me my first taste of champagne during one of those events.”
“Would you be able to find it on Google Maps?”
She nods slowly. “I can definitely try.”
Upon reaching the front of the lodge, I glance across the parking spaces first. My truck is still on its own. “Nico and Booker are still out,” I conclude. “We’ll whip up lunch and save them a couple of plates.”
“That sounds good,” Anya replies as she climbs the porch steps. “I was thinking lasagna? There’s the beef mince we got the other day. We never decided what we were going to do with it. Oh.” She pauses, and the silence that makes me turn away from my truck to look at her.
Anya stands frozen in front of the door.
Quiet.
I can see the tension gathering in her shoulders. Her knees are quivering.
Instantly, I bolt up the steps and join her. “What’s wrong?”
Anya can’t speak. She’s paralyzed with fear, her lips pale and parted, her eyes wide as she stares at something on the door. I follow her gaze and find a yellow sticky note taped at eye level. A message is written in thick, black marker.
“Leo was here,” I mutter. And his message is clear.
YOU HAVE 24H TO DELIVER ANYA OR SEELEY LAKE BURNS.
“Chance,” she whispers, “you know what this means.”
“It’s not exactly a secret that we live up here,” I say, trying to comfort her. “We’ve got security in place, though. The cameras will have caught him.”
“You said you had motion sensors,” she manages, but the tremor in her voice sends my blood racing. “Why didn’t the motion sensors get triggered and alert you on your phone?”
That is a good and downright alarming question. “You’re right. I’m calling Nico and Booker back in to figure out what happened.”
“He stood right here on this porch, Chance.”
“Leo Sokolov isn’t getting anywhere near you, Anya.”
I take her in my arms and hold her close, feeling her heart beat furiously against mine. My words are no longer enough, however. I cannot quell the fear she’s drowning in right now. My comfort is useless in the face of this wretched note.
Leo made a point of showing Anya that she’s not safe anywhere.
And it’ll be a fucking pain to prove him wrong.
He just declared war and I know how the Russians fight—dirty and bloody. And a lot of people will die unless we figure out a way to take him out before he gets even closer to Anya.