Chapter 4
Yefrem
I wake to the sound of rain still pattering against the window, though lighter now than the steady downpour that lulled me to sleep, and for a moment, I forget where I am. Then reality settles back into place along with the familiar weight of responsibility and danger that follows me everywhere.
I shower in the small bathroom across the hall, grateful for the hot water and clean towels that smell like lavender fabric softener.
Back in the guest room, I dress carefully in yesterday’s clothes, which Celia probably noticed are expensive despite my attempts to appear unremarkable.
I should have packed differently for this identity and chosen pieces that would blend better with the middle-class suburban environment in which I’m hiding. I’ll have to get some new clothes.
Once I’m ready, I retrieve the notebook from the bedside drawer where I secured it last night.
The pages inside contain encrypted transaction records documenting six years of Russian Mafia activities in California, along with detailed payment schedules to corrupt FBI agents, federal judges, and political figures whose cooperation kept our operations running smoothly.
I flip through the pages, double-checking that everything remains intact.
The codes and numbers look innocuous enough to casual observation, but they represent millions in laundered money, bribes, and protection payments.
Marcus Lang has been hunting this notebook since my brother’s death, knowing it contains evidence that would not only bring down my organization but expose the network of corruption that allowed us to operate with impunity for so long.
If Lang gets this notebook from me, I have no idea what kind of chaos will transpire in the fallout.
He could use it to clean house within the FBI, eliminating the agents who’ve been taking our money while positioning himself as the hero who exposed the corruption.
Or he could leverage the information for his own purposes, blackmailing the same officials we’ve been paying to ensure they serve his interests instead of ours.
Judging from the way he’s been conducting himself, I think he’ll pursue the latter option. He’s anything but by the book.
Either scenario ends badly for me and everyone connected to my organization. I close the notebook and slip it back into my jacket pocket, then head downstairs to find Celia.
The smell of coffee and something baking guides me to the kitchen, where I find her standing at the counter with her back to me, hair pulled into a messy bun that reveals the graceful curve of her neck.
She’s wearing jeans and a soft gray sweater that makes her look younger than she did last night, and more relaxed in her own space.
“Good morning.” I keep my voice neutral and professional, though something about the domestic scene makes me want to linger here longer than safety would recommend.
She turns with a smile that transforms her entire face, making me wonder what I missed last night in the dim hallway lighting. “Morning. I hope you slept well. Coffee’s ready, and I just pulled some blueberry muffins from the oven.”
The muffins sit cooling on a wire rack, golden and fragrant, and clearly homemade rather than store-bought. When was the last time someone baked for me? The gesture feels personal in a way that catches me unprepared. “You didn’t need to go to such trouble.”
“No trouble at all. I love baking, and it’s been a while since I had an excuse to make more than single portions. Microwave muffins just aren’t as good.” She pours coffee into a ceramic mug and hands it to me, brushing her fingers against mine briefly in the exchange. “How do you take it?”
“Black is perfect.” The coffee is excellent, rich and smooth without the bitter edge I’ve grown accustomed to at truck stops and diners. “This is very good.”
“Thanks. I’m a bit of a coffee snob, I’m afraid. It’s one of my few remaining indulgences.”
The casual reference to financial constraints reminds me she’s recently unemployed, turning her spare bedroom into income out of necessity rather than choice.
The thought bothers me more than it should.
She seems like the kind of person who deserves stability and security, not the uncertainty that comes with depending on strangers for rent money.
We settle at her small kitchen table with coffee and warm muffins. Steam rises from both our cups in the cool morning air, and she breaks her muffin into small pieces, eating each bite carefully. Her movements have a deliberate quality that suggests someone who’s learned to savor simple pleasures.
“So, what brings you to Lake Tahoe?” She glances up from her plate, brown eyes curious but not intrusive.
“My business meetings in Reno ran later than expected. I needed somewhere quiet to regroup before continuing to San Francisco.”
“What kind of business?” She takes a sip of coffee, waiting patiently for my answer.
“International goods. Mostly trade between Eastern Europe and the West Coast.” The half-truth flows easily enough.
Her face lights up with interest. “That sounds fascinating. I’ve always wanted to travel internationally, but I’ve never had the opportunity.
” She pauses, then adds with a self-deprecating laugh, “The farthest I’ve been is Vancouver, and that was for a college spring break trip, where we mostly stayed in hostels and ate ramen. ”
The image of her backpacking through Canada with college friends strikes me as both endearing and completely at odds with the sophisticated international travel my work requires.
I want to tell her about Prague’s cobblestone streets at dawn, the way canal light reflects off ancient buildings in St. Petersburg, and hidden restaurants in Moscow, where babushkas serve soup that could heal souls.
Instead, I reach for my coffee. “Vancouver’s beautiful. Did you enjoy it?”
“We got caught in the rain every single day and somehow still had the best time.” Her smile transforms her entire face. “There’s something about traveling with friends when you’re twenty and think you can survive on enthusiasm and instant noodles.”
We eat quietly for a few minutes, rain continuing to drum against the kitchen windows. She refills both our coffee cups without asking, the gesture automatic and welcoming.
“I was wondering,” I say unexpectedly, surprising myself as I set down my mug, “Would it be possible to extend my stay another night? The weather looks problematic for mountain driving, and my schedule has some flexibility.”
She looks up quickly, and I catch something that might be relief crossing her face before she smiles. “Of course. I’ll update your booking in the app. Are you sure one more night will be enough?”
I have to pause for a moment. Being around her creates an unfamiliar sense of calm, like stepping into a quiet library after hours of city noise.
Every instinct tells me to maintain distance, to remember that she knows nothing about who I really am or why I’m here, and to move on quickly.
“One more night should be sufficient.” I keep my voice neutral despite the way she tilts her head slightly when listening.
“Perfect.” She stands to clear our plates, moving with the easy efficiency of someone comfortable in her own space. “I was actually planning to take my neighbor’s dog for a hike this morning if the rain lets up. You’re welcome to join us if you don’t have firm plans.”
The invitation startles me. I should decline and cite business calls or emails that need attention. Instead, I watch her rinse dishes at the sink, note the careful way she handles what could be her grandmother’s china cups, and hear myself saying, “That sounds pleasant. I’d enjoy the company.”
When she turns back to face me, her smile could power the entire street.
An hour later, the rain has diminished to a light drizzle. I’m walking beside Celia on a trail that winds through pine forests above her neighborhood. The dog she’s borrowed bounces ahead of us like a wind-up toy, her stubby legs working overtime to match our pace.
“This is Sariah,” Celia says, laughing as the dog stops to investigate an interesting smell. “My neighbor, Mrs. Patterson, is recovering from hip surgery, so I’ve been helping with walks.”
Sariah looks like someone combined a Yorkshire Terrier, a Dachshund, and possibly several other breeds in an experiment that prioritized personality over aesthetics.
Her tail never stops wagging, and she approaches every stick, rock, and leaf like it might be the most important discovery in canine history.
“She’s very...” I search for a diplomatic word.
“Ridiculous? Adorable? Completely lacking in dignity?” Celia grins. “Mrs. Patterson says she has the heart of a Great Dane trapped in a body that barely reaches your ankle. She took one look at the dorky little dog and adopted her immediately at a local adoption event when we attended last year.”
“You weren’t interested in a dog?” I ask.
She looks sad for a moment. “I was, but my boyfriend is allergic to dogs. Ex -boyfriend,” she adds with fierce but quiet emphasis.” Then she smiles. “I should have gotten the dog and dumped him at the shelter.”
The idea of her with another man makes me want to puke my guts out. I have no claim to her and no reason to feel so sickened by her being with someone else… But I do.
Somehow, I manage to nod and reply, “The dog would probably have been the better choice.”
She laughs a little. “Once I’m back to work or more financially stable, I plan to adopt one.”
We follow a well-maintained trail that offers glimpses of Lake Tahoe through the trees. The air smells clean and sharp, pine-scented in a way that makes me realize how long it’s been since I breathed air that wasn’t tainted by exhaust fumes or urban pollution.
“How long have you lived here?” I ask as we pause at a scenic overlook.