Chapter 30
AMALIE
The automatic doors to the police station hiss open and I stagger inside like I’m crossing a finish line. My lungs are burning, my legs shaking. I stumble to the counter, holding onto it to steady myself.
“I was attacked.” I say the words to everyone and no one, letting them tumble out of my mouth, my vision blurry, adrenaline still coursing through me. “Two blocks away. Two men. Black van. They tried to—” That’s as far as I get before my knees start to buckle underneath me.
A female officer hurries over and places her hand on my shoulder. “Come on. Let’s get out of the lobby.”
She walks me through the precinct, past the security barriers.
A pair of officers form up at my sides. Soon, I’m in the bustling main area of the station—the bull pen—where officers are talking and working, many of them seated at desks.
She guides me to a small chair by the window.
Another officer places a paper cup of water in my hands.
The room smells like coffee and floor cleaner. The chatter of dozens of other officers is a dull din. One of the officers asks me the basics—my name, if I was injured, all of that.
I’m safe. But my pulse is still pounding.
“I’m okay,” I say. “I’m just really shaken up.”
They start asking questions. The female cop goes first. She speaks slowly and calmly, and I can tell I’m not the first panicked person she’s tried to get information from. The questions are typical: where, when, what did they look like. I answer as best I can, but it all happened so fast.
“Did they say anything?” she asks gently.
I hesitate, then close my eyes. “Russian. They had Russian accents.”
The officers exchange a look. One of them takes a note.
I wrap my arms around myself, trying to slow my breathing, keeping something important in mind. Don’t talk about Roman. Don’t say his name. Don’t say anything that could connect this to him.
The sound of hurried footsteps reaches me before I see him.
“Amalie.”
I don’t need to look up to know who it is. I raise my gaze and make eye contact with my brother. He’s dressed in civilian clothes, his hair a little mussed, stubble on his face, his jacket wrinkled.
He looks me up and down with trained eyes, assessing me for injury, possible evidence. Then he drops to a crouch, hands hovering like he’s afraid to touch me without permission.
“Jesus, are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” The word comes out shaky. “I mean, physically I’m fine.”
He nods. “Okay. Good. What happened?”
Another lesson of Kyle’s comes to mind, the one about talking to the cops.
He’s always told me to only say what I know for sure, don’t speculate, and don’t name names.
A little ironic that I’d be using this lesson while talking to him, but then again, that’s probably the least strangest thing that’s happened in my life over the last few weeks.
I close my eyes, think as clearly as I’m capable in the moment, then speak. “It happened near my building,” I say slowly. “Two men. Tall. Muscular. They tried to grab me. I fought them off, and someone intervened.”
“Someone?” he asks.
“A bystander.”
Kyle’s eyes narrow a bit; he realizes there’s more to this than what I’m saying. “And the attackers?”
“Not sure. One was down when the bystander told me to run here. I don’t know what happened to them.”
He studies my face, reading what I’m not saying. “I heard you say they were speaking Russian.”
“They had Russian accents,” I say.
“That’s unusual.”
“It’s Chicago. People from all over the world live here.”
His expression stays neutral. For a moment, I feel more like a suspect he’s interrogating than his sister.
Then he lets out a sigh. “Okay, okay. We’ll find who did this. I’m just glad you’re safe.”
Suddenly, the energy in the room shifts. Conversations falter. A couple of officers glance toward the hallway.
I hear it. Heavy footfalls. Measured. Unhurried. And a voice I’d recognize anywhere.
“Amalie.” He speaks my name, calm and resonant. It cuts through the air of the room like a knife.
Every head turns. The crowd in the hallway leading to the main lobby parts without a word. Officers step aside as if he’s in charge of the place. They all know who he is. Roman Barinov strides into the precinct surrounded by his men, a squad of rough-looking Russians in dark coats.
Kyle stiffens beside me. “What the hell?” he mutters.
Roman’s gaze finds me immediately. It softens, just a bit, relief flickering for an instant before switching back to his usual expression of tight control. He closes the distance between us in long strides.
“Are you hurt?”
“I’m okay.”
Kyle stands and straightens, stepping into the space between us without even thinking, my older brother instinctively protecting me from danger, like he’s always done.
“Roman Barinov,” Kyle says.
Roman nods slightly. “And you must be Kyle.” There’s a strangeness to the way he says it.
Kyle turns from Roman, fixes his attention on me. “Why is he here?” he asks. “And how does he know you?”
Roman doesn’t wait for me to answer. “She was attacked,” he says. “I was informed. I came.”
Kyle puts his hands on his hips. “Mr. Barinov, this is an active police matter.”
“Of course,” he says. “I’m merely checking on a member of my staff.”
I can feel the room holding its breath. Kyle flicks his gaze from Roman to me, pieces clicking together in his mind. I can see him beginning to understand.
But he doesn’t accuse. Instead, he asks, “What’s going on?”
I open my mouth, but I have no idea what to say.