Chapter Fourteen
Ilona
The clock in the Vorobevs’ foyer hasn’t stopped its relentless counting, but this morning each tick feels like a nail being driven into my skull.
I press my palms against the marble kitchen counter, the cold stone doing nothing to stop my hands from shaking.
Two weeks and three days. That’s how long I’ve been here, and the Vorobevs should have returned yesterday.
Should have called. Should have done something other than vanish into thin air like smoke from one of Leonid’s expensive cigars.
My phone sits face-up on the counter, screen black and silent. I’ve called them six times since dawn. Six times straight to voicemail, Elena’s melodic voice promising to return my call soon. Empty words that grow more hollow each time I hear them.
Slava babbles from his high chair, mashing banana between his tiny fingers, little dark brows furrowed in concentration.
The sun filtering through the kitchen windows is warm and golden, and the house should feel alive with morning energy.
Instead, it feels like a mausoleum— beautiful, pristine, and utterly lifeless.
“Where are your mama and papa, little one?” I murmur, watching him work. He’s like a tiny wolf cub sometimes, all fierce determination wrapped in impossible softness. The thought makes me smile despite everything.
But that’s the problem, isn’t it? Nothing about this arrangement feels temporary anymore. Not the way Slava reaches for me when he’s scared, not the way I’ve memorized which floorboards creak when I carry him to his room for naps, not the way my chest tightens at the thought of leaving him.
The silence stretches, broken only by Slava’s contented babbling and the rhythmic drip of the kitchen faucet that no amount of tightening seems to fix.
I should call someone. But who? The Vorobevs never mentioned friends, family, business associates.
Their world seemed to exist in a vacuum, sealed off from everyone except their mysterious “business trips” and carefully orchestrated social appearances.
My hand drifts to my belly, a nervous habit I’ve developed over the past few days.
I have another doctor’s appointment tomorrow.
Dr. Martinez will want to discuss next steps, options, the future I’m not ready to face.
How can I explain that I’m trapped in limbo, caring for a child whose guardians have disappeared into the ether?
The landline’s shrill ring cuts through my spiraling thoughts. I freeze, staring at the cream-colored phone mounted on the kitchen wall. In two weeks, that phone has never rung. Not once. Elena and Leonid always used their mobiles, always kept their communications private and controlled.
Ring. Ring. Ring.
Slava looks up from his banana massacre, eyes wide with curiosity. He tilts his head the same way he does when he hears a new sound, completely trusting that I’ll handle whatever comes next.
I move quickly across the kitchen, snatching the phone up. The receiver feels foreign in my hand, heavier than it should be.
“Hello?” I sound breathless.
“Good afternoon.” The voice is crisp, professional, already heavy with news I don’t want to hear. “My name is Cameron Simpson. I’m the director of the Beacon Hill Orphanage in Boston. I’m looking for the current caregiver of Slava Vorobev.”
Shit.
This doesn’t sound good.
“That would be me,” I say cautiously. “Is there a problem?”
Orphanage. The word has an ominous ring to it. And it unravels every assumption I’ve made about this family, this situation, this beautiful little boy who’s been placed in my temporary care.
“I’m afraid I have some disturbing news, Miss…”
“Katona.” My tongue feels thick, clumsy. “Disturbing news?”
The pause that follows stretches unbearably. I can hear Cameron Simpson drawing breath, preparing to detonate whatever bomb he’s called to deliver. Behind me, Slava drops a piece of banana and it hits the floor with a tiny, wet sound that somehow feels impossibly loud.
“Miss Katona, I’ve just been contacted by the police.
We are the first point of contact if something were to happen with Slava’s adoptive parents.
I am sorry to inform you that Elena and Leonid Vorobev were involved in a plane crash last night.
Their private jet went down over the ocean. Neither of them survived.”
The phone slips from nerveless fingers. I catch it just before it hits the counter, the motion automatic, muscle memory keeping me upright when my mind has gone completely blank.
Adoptive parents.
Plane crash.
Neither survived.
The words don’t compute. They float in my consciousness like debris after an explosion, refusing to form a coherent picture. I’m dimly aware that Cameron Simpson is still talking, but his voice sounds like it’s coming from underwater.
“What?” The word scrapes out of my throat.
“I know this is terrible news—”
“Wait.” I press my back against the cabinet, needing something solid to anchor me. “Wait, you said adoptive parents? Slava was adopted?”
A pause. “Yes, Miss Katona. I assumed you were aware. The Vorobevs completed the adoption process through our facility approximately three weeks ago.”
Three weeks. They’d had him for barely a week and then hired me? “But… they never mentioned… I thought he was their biological son.”
“I understand this is confusing. The Vorobevs requested privacy regarding the adoption details. They felt it was important for Slava’s transition that household staff treat him as they would any biological child.”
Staff. The word stings more than it should. “How did this happen? The crash, I mean.”
“According to the Coast Guard, their aircraft lost contact with air traffic control around 7 p.m last night. They were returning from a business trip to Miami. The wreckage was located early this morning.” His voice gentles. “I’m truly sorry, Miss Katona. I know this must be devastating news.”
Devastating doesn’t begin to cover it. I slide down the cabinet door until I’m sitting on the cold tile, phone pressed against my ear. “What happens now? To Slava?”
“Under Massachusetts law, custody reverts to the adoption agency when adoptive parents pass away without naming guardians. We’ll need to collect Slava and begin the process of finding him a new placement.”
“Collect him.” The words feel foreign in my mouth. “Like he’s… like he’s a package?”
“I understand how that sounds, Miss Katona, but we have protocols—”
“He doesn’t know.” The words burst out of me. “He’s just a baby. He doesn’t understand that they’re gone, that his whole world just disappeared again.”
“Again?”
“He spent his first year in your orphanage, didn’t he? Then three weeks with the Vorobevs, and now…” I watch Slava mashing his banana, completely oblivious to the conversation that’s determining his future. “How many times is this child going to lose everything?”
The silence stretches long enough that I wonder if the line has gone dead.
“Miss Katona,” Cameron Simpson finally says, his voice softer now.
“I can hear how much you care about Slava. That’s…
that’s not always the case with temporary caregivers.
Would you be able to stay with him just for another day?
I know it’s a lot to ask, but the transition will be easier if he’s not moved immediately. ”
Another day.
One more day to pretend this nightmare isn’t real. One more day before this little boy becomes a statistic again.
I look at Slava. He’s abandoned his banana in favor of trying to climb out of his high-chair, chubby legs kicking with determination. When he sees me watching, his face lights up with that radiant smile that’s become as essential to my mornings as coffee.
He doesn’t know. He has no idea that he’s just become an orphan again.
“I… of course,” I hear myself saying. “I won’t leave him alone.”
“Thank you. Thank you for understanding. I will be in touch shortly.”
The line goes dead. I stare at the phone in my hand for a long moment before setting it back in its cradle with exaggerated care, as if sudden movements might shatter what’s left of this surreal morning.
Slava makes an impatient sound, still trying to escape his high-chair. His dark hair sticks up in impossible directions, sticky with banana, and there’s a smear of the fruit across his cheek. He looks so beautifully, heartbreakingly alive.
I stand on unsteady legs and go to him, lifting him out of the chair and into my arms. He settles against me immediately, that perfect trust that children give so freely. His small hand pats my shoulder, and when I look down, I realize I’m crying.
“I’m so sorry, little one,” I whisper into his hair. “I’m so, so sorry.”
But sorry doesn’t change anything. Sorry doesn’t bring back his adoptive parents or guarantee him a future that doesn’t involve being shuffled between institutions and strangers.
Sorry doesn’t explain why, as I hold this child who isn’t mine, the thought of letting him go feels like it might actually kill me.