Valerie
Idon't sleep.
Can't sleep. Every time I close my eyes, I see the gun. Feel the cold metal pressing into my forehead. Hear the click of the trigger guard against my skull. See those pale gray eyes deciding whether I live or die.
By the time dawn breaks through my window, I've been awake for twenty-six hours straight, and my hands won't stop shaking.
I need to call Tash. Need to hear her voice telling me I'm going to survive this, even if it's a lie.
My phone is buried under a pillow where I shoved it last night, afraid the sound might somehow alert someone that I'm falling apart. I pull it out with trembling fingers and dial her number.
She answers on the first ring. "Val. Jesus Christ, I've been checking my phone every 5 seconds. Are you alive?"
"Barely." My voice comes out raw and broken. "Tash, I fucked up. I fucked up so bad—"
"What happened?"
“I got caught,” I whisper. “First day, and I ended up in his bathroom.”
Tash goes still on the line. I can hear it. That razor-focus she gets when fear turns into calculation.
“Did he hurt you?”
“He put a gun to my head.” My throat tightens around the words like they’re glass. “I talked. I mentioned his daughter. He let me go.”
Silence.
Then, quietly, “He let you go?”
“Yes.”
“Okay.” Her voice sharpens. “That means he’s not reacting like a man who thinks you’re a random maid. He’s reacting like a man who suspects. Which means you stop moving like a spy.”
I swallow hard. “I am a spy.”
“Not if you act like you belong there.” She breathes out once, controlled. “Listen to me. No more wandering. No more trying doors. No more obvious recon. You do your job perfectly, you become invisible, you build trust the slow way.”
“Patrick wants results.”
“Patrick wants control,” she snaps. “Results are how he keeps you on a leash. If you rush, you die. If you look guilty, you die. So you stop giving yourself away.”
My fingers crush the phone. “Tash, I can’t do this.”
“You can.” Her tone turns iron. “Because Ethan can’t. And your mother can’t. So you do it.”
The words land like a slap.
Then softer, “Tell me one thing. When you looked in Lev Volkov’s eyes, did you see boredom or did you see interest?”
I close my eyes. I see him again, water streaming down his skin, the gun steady, his stare dissecting me.
“Interest,” I whisper.
“Good.” Her voice turns deadly calm. “Then you can steer it.”
"Tash, I can't do this." My voice breaks completely. "I can't spy on him, I can't—every time I see him, I'm going to remember the gun, and I'm going to fall apart, and Patrick's going to kill Ethan—"
"Val." She cuts me off, and her voice changes.
Goes cold and professional in a way I've only heard a handful of times.
"The police could handle this. One call. And the police will swarm his case like ants to sugar, they’ve been looking for him, they will help you.
No more threats. No more missions. You know that right? "
My breath catches. "What!"
"You heard me. One call to the police, and Patrick could be done. Gone. You and your family walk away clean."
For one second—just one—I let myself imagine it. Patrick gone. Mom and Ethan safe. No more burner phone. No more impossible deadlines. No more living in terror.
But then reality crashes back in.
"No." The word comes out strangled. "No, Tash, I can't—what if it goes wrong? What if Patrick has backup plans, people who can come after us even if the police manage to put him away? What if he has half the police in his pocket? Men like him must surely have half the police force in their pocket."
Tash sighs. "You are right. I was just trying to think of other options that do not put you in the lion's den."
“There is no other way.”
“I tried talking to my father, but he is not ready to send his men and resources into a war that will make him look like a reckless leader.”
“Thank you for trying. For being my friend.”
“I wish there was anything more I could do because men like Patrick don't let their victims go.”
Her words send fear straight to my chest, but I push it down.
“You have done enough.”
“Please, Val, try and keep in touch as often as you can.”
"I promise."
She hangs up and I sit there staring at my phone, her words echoing in my head. Men like Patrick don't let people go.
But I have to believe he will. Have to believe that if I just survive three months, just give him enough to satisfy him, this nightmare will end.
Because the alternative—that I'm trapped forever, that there's no way out—that's too terrifying to consider.
The burner phone buzzes in my bag.
My stomach drops through the floor.
No. Not yet. It's too soon—
But I pull it out with shaking hands anyway, because ignoring Patrick is worse than facing him.
Unknown number. Incoming call.
I answer. "Hello?"
"Valerie." Patrick's voice is smooth and cold, like expensive scotch mixed with poison. "I've been waiting for your report."
"I—I'm still getting oriented. The house is huge, there's security everywhere, I need more time to—"
"You've had twenty-four hours. That's more than enough time to find something useful."
"I tried, but there are cameras and keypads, and I don't have access to most of the building yet—"
“Then get access." His tone remains steady, but there's a colder undertone beneath it. "Or would you like me to motivate you?"
My hands are shaking so hard that the phone almost slips. "No. No, I just—I need forty-eight hours. Please. I'll have something by then, I promise."
"Forty-eight hours." He lets the words hang there, savoring them. "And what happens if you don't?"
Please don't please don't please—
"Your brother Ethan is seventeen, yes? Still in high school. Brighton Prep, if I'm not mistaken." Papers rustle in the background, casual and terrifying. "He walks home most days. Takes the same route—down Atlantic Avenue, cuts through the park near the library. Very predictable routine."
My chest tightens so hard I can't breathe.
"If you don't have something useful for me in forty-eight hours, I'm going to have someone meet him in that park.
" Patrick's voice stays conversational, like he's discussing dinner plans.
"They're going to take him somewhere quiet.
Somewhere soundproofed. And then they're going to start with his fingers. "
"No—"
"One at a time. Slowly. I'll have them record it so you can hear every scream, every time he begs them to stop.
After the fingers, we'll move to his toes.
Then his teeth. I'm thinking pliers for those—the sound is particularly memorable.
Then his knees. His elbows. By the time we're finished, your mother will be praying for death. For both of them."
I'm crying now, can't stop, hand pressed over my mouth to muffle the sobs that want to tear out. "Please—"
"Forty-eight hours, Valerie. I suggest you make them count."
He hangs up.
I drop the phone and cover my face with both hands, trying to breathe through the panic tearing up my throat. Forty-eight hours. Two days to find something Patrick can use or listen to, or I’ll have to listen to my brother's fingers being broken one by one while he screams for me to save him.
I can't do this. I can't do this. I can't—
But Ethan's face flashes in my mind. Seventeen, scared, and crying silently while Dad bled out on the carpet. Trusting me to keep him safe. I’d lied and said I would.
And now I have to make that lie true, or watch him die screaming.
I have to do this.
I have no choice.
By the time Sofia comes to collect me for my second day, I've pulled myself together enough to function. Barely.
My eyes are red and swollen, but I blame it on exhaustion when she asks. She studies me for a moment with those sharp eyes that miss nothing, then nods and leads me through the maze of corridors.
"Today you'll focus on the main floor," she says, heels clicking against marble in that sharp, precise rhythm that sounds too much like gunshots. "General housekeeping. Keep your head down, do your work, and stay in your assigned areas. Understood?"
"Yes, ma'am."
She hands me a cleaning caddy and a list of rooms. "Start with the sitting room, then the library. If you finish early, Elena may need assistance in the sunroom."
The sunroom. I remember seeing it during the tour—lots of windows, soft furniture, the kind of room designed for a child to feel safe.
"Thank you."
Sofia leaves, and I'm alone in this massive house with two days to find something that will keep my brother alive.
I start cleaning because it's all I can do. Dust the sitting room furniture, vacuum the rugs, and polish surfaces until they shine. The work is mindless, which is both good and terrible—good because I can't think past the panic, terrible because my mind keeps circling back to Patrick's words.
Fingers. Toes. Teeth. Pliers.
Stop it, Val. Just Focus and clean.
Every door I pass is locked. Every corridor has cameras. And after yesterday, I'm too terrified to try snooping again. What if he catches me? What if this time he doesn't just hold the gun—what if he pulls the trigger?
I'm dusting the library shelves, hands shaking badly enough that I nearly drop the cloth, when I hear it.
Footsteps. Small and careful.
I turn, and there she is.
Mila Volkov.
She's tiny for seven—dark curls, pale skin, and huge gray eyes that watch me with such intensity that I catch my breath. She is wearing a white, lace-trimmed dress, spotless and expensive, and stands in the doorway studying me.
Not hostile. Just... observing. Deciding something.
"Hi," I manage, and my voice comes out softer than I intended. Gentler. Because she's just a little girl, and whatever else is happening in this nightmare, she doesn't deserve to be scared. "I'm Valerie. I'm new here."
She doesn't answer. Just keeps staring with those too-old eyes that have seen things children shouldn't see.
I set down my dust cloth and crouch so we're closer to eye level, trying to seem less threatening. "What's your name?"