Chapter 9
AMALIE
Sasha and I work on projects all through the morning, taking a little break for lunch before heading back to the art room. His tutor called in sick today, so we’re taking advantage of the extra time to have some fun.
Next is brush painting. I’m not sure if Sasha’s ready yet for easel work, so I decide to start with paper. I tape a few fresh pieces to the table, just like my favorite art teacher, Mrs. Blankenship, did in elementary school.
“Secure the canvas, then let the mind wander,” she’d say.
I set out water cups and clean brushes of different sizes. For the colors, I keep them limited—primary, with a few fun additions like aquamarine. It’s a nice selection without being overwhelming.
“Alright, Sasha. Today we’re going to learn how to paint light.”
His eyes widen. “You can do that?”
“Sure can. Well, on paper at least. Which is still pretty cool.”
First, I show him how to lay down a wash, letting him see how the water does half the work.
I guide his small hand here and there, letting him try when he’s ready.
Sasha’s careful and surprisingly patient.
Some kids can get upset when they can’t quite draw what they have pictured in their minds.
Not Sasha. He works steadily, his tongue between his lips as he concentrates.
“There you go, buddy,” I encourage. “Notice how the colors change when you mix them. Being an artist is all about exploring stuff like that, curious about the outcome but remembering how you got there.”
“So, when you want the right color, you know how to do it.”
“Exactly.”
We keep at it. For a little while, I hit that perfect flow state where I get so caught up in my work that the rest of the world just ceases to exist. I put on some Mozart piano sonatas, letting them fill the space as we work. Sasha’s totally in the zone.
Something catches my eye when I stretch, and I look more closely. High in the corner of the room, almost hidden, a camera lens catches the light.
Of course. He’s watching. From wherever he is—his office, his car—he’s watching us right now. I can feel it.
I force myself to relax. This is part of my life now and I might as well get used to it. Besides, watching me isn’t totally out of line. I’m still new, and on top of that, I’m responsible for the most important person in his world.
It’s all very weird, but it is what it is.
Out on the heated terrace on the other side of the tall windows, Andrei stands like a statue. His hands are folded, and he scans the grounds with narrowed eyes.
Sasha follows my gaze to see what I’m looking at.
“Andrei’s nice,” he says, returning his attention to his painting. “He’s been friends with Papa from before I was born.”
“You guys seem close, like you’re good buds.”
He nods. “Papa tells me he helps keep the bad guys away. And one time he got hurt really bad because of me.”
“What do you mean?”
“Papa said one time bad guys tried to hurt me, and Andrei stopped them. It happened when I was a baby.”
Interesting. I place my brush in one of the water cups. “Sasha, do you ever feel scared here?”
He shakes his head without hesitation. “No. Papa and Andrei keep me safe.”
I swallow hard. Outside, Roman’s man stands watch. Up above, Roman himself keeps an eye on us.
And I’m sitting here, trying to pretend it’s all normal.
The call comes just after midnight.
My phone buzzes on my nightstand, rattling around on the wood and dragging me out of my half-asleep state. I just want to hit ignore and go right back to not sleeping.
Instead, curiosity gets the better of me. I pick up the phone and check the screen.
My stomach drops.
Max.
The ringing stops, and for a second, I allow myself to feel relief. Then it starts again. I groan and roll over. I don’t want to answer it, but I have to. Max is a cop, and he knows Kyle. It could be about my brother. It probably isn’t, but the chance is greater than zero.
I snatch the phone up angrily and answer. “What?” I whisper.
Silence. Then he speaks. “Nice to hear your voice too, Mal.”
I’ve always hated that nickname. His tone is easy, familiar, and smug.
I sit up slowly, pulling the blanket tighter around myself. “It’s after midnight. What do you want?”
“To talk.”
I laugh. It comes out brittle and angry. “We did all of our talking when you broke up with me over text, remember? When you made fun of my weight?”
“I didn’t make fun. I was just looking out for you, you know?”
“Sure as hell didn’t feel like it.”
“You were getting comfortable. I just wanted to keep you on track.”
Rage courses through me and I want to call him every goddamn name in the book. But I don’t. Instead, I close my eyes, take a deep breath, then speak. “What do you want, Max?”
“I just want to talk, like I said. Heard you got a new job.”
My stomach tightens. What does he know? “And?”
“And I was surprised. You didn’t exactly leave the last phase of your life looking stable.” He’s always had a special way of insulting me while expressing fake concern.
“I’m doing fine, actually. And yeah, you’re right to call our time together a phase. A phase I’m glad is over.”
“Oh, you’re not spiraling?”
“I told you, I’m doing fine.”
“You always say that right before things blow up. What is it this time, another temp job?”
“Yes.”
After a pause, he says, “You’ve got to move past this stuff. You’re not going to get anywhere with temp jobs.”
I grit my teeth. “Is that why you’re calling? To get some fresh insults in?”
“They aren’t insults. God, you’re so sensitive.
I tell you I want to see you get healthier, and you take it personally.
Then I tell you that you need to start thinking about your future and not just hop from temp job to temp job, and you get defensive.
It’s like you think you can do whatever you want and no one’s allowed to say anything about it. ”
“More like I don’t give a shit about your opinion, Max. And you don’t get to pretend you’re concerned. Call it what it is—control. And you lost the right to say anything about my life when you insulted my body.”
“I was just being honest.”
“You were being cruel. There’s a difference.”
A long silence follows. “I was trying to look out for you.”
“I’ve been looking out for myself just fine. Now, screw off.”
I hang up before he can reply, letting out a loud, angered groan. My hands are shaking. I need some air.
I hop out of bed, pull on a sweater, and slip out into the hallway barefoot.
I hurry to the nearest terrace doors and pull them open, stepping out and expecting a rush of cold air.
Then I remember that like nearly every other usable part of this estate, the terraces are heated.
Warm air envelops me, the heat a total contrast to the serene snowy night outside.
The sky is clear, the stars bright and twinkling above.
I grip the railing, breathing deeply until the tightness in my chest eases.
Max. That fucking prick. Calling me in the middle of the night to what?
Push the knife in another half inch? Then it hits me—he was probably drunk.
Another one of his charming qualities. He probably wanted to test the waters, see if I was down for some sex-with-an-ex.
Not a chance. As soon as he realized by my tone that I wanted nothing to do with him, he shifted gears and went prick mode.
I nearly jump when I hear Roman’s voice.
“Running again?”