32. Taylor
TAYLOR
It’s only eight thirty in the morning when Mikhail tells me that he wants me to move in with him.
A sharp inhale sends my coffee down the wrong pipe, and it blisters all the way down. He offers me water, and I shake my head, but when I’m done choking, he doesn’t take it back. “Um, doesn’t that seem a little early? I mean, I only just—”
“Just temporarily,” he says calmly, and he gestures at a folder on his desk. “For security. Orlov has learned about you. We knew it was a matter of time.”
I close the report. “Why would Orlov care about me?”
“Because I care about you,” he says, the answer so plain.
Like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
My mind flashes back to that time, to the unwinding we did together, to him saying I have you while he looked me in the eyes and I came around him, afraid of what it might feel like, vulnerable on the edge in front of him.
I open the folder and try to keep my face neutral.
Looking back at me are photographs of a man I recognize from my research into Viktor Orlov.
He appeared in enough photographs beside Orlov that I remembered his face, always a few steps behind him, always looking bored.
In these photographs, he’s sitting in a car on the street by my apartment while I take out the trash, on the street by the grocery store I shop at while I’m arm in arm with Anya, outside the bar I frequent while Dima and Viktoriya and I twirl each other down the sidewalk.
This man has been watching me for a while, figuring out everywhere I go, waiting for the perfect moment.
He hasn’t found it yet.
I close the folder and look up at Mikhail. I slide it toward him. “So, you haven’t stopped surveilling me either, then,” I say quietly.
The breath he exhales is heavy and long, and I see concern so tender etched into his face that I forgive him instantly. “No, I have not. I am sorry.”
I shake my head and look at my fingers in my lap. “It’s okay. But I can’t move in with you, Mikhail, not even temporarily. I don’t want to. I don’t want your guards and your rules.”
“You are in danger.”
“And moving into your house would make me safer? Or easier to supervise?”
“Both.”
At least he’s honest.
“I guess you’ll have to kidnap me again,” I snap and stand up, snatching the photographs from his desk.
His jaw tightens. “You would really prefer to remain in an apartment with a broken exterior camera and one lock than to be with me?”
Phrased that way, it sounds so sad that I almost relent. Almost. “I would prefer to remain in my home where I am in charge.”
His voice drops. “You are moving tonight.”
I open his office door and from the doorway I say, loudly enough that heads turn, “No.”
If he could tie me up with just his eyes, he would. He growls, “We will discuss it later.”
“We just did,” I say happily and close the door on him.
I leave work at six with one of Mikhail’s drivers trailing me. I notice the car after two blocks. Black sedan. Slow enough to match my pace. I call Mikhail. “You’re following me.”
“I am not in the car.”
“You know what I mean. Make him leave.”
“No.”
“I hate you.”
“I know.”
I hang up. The sedan follows me all the way home. Anya is sitting on the sofa when I enter, eating cereal directly from the box and watching something on her laptop. “Some guy came looking for you,” she says.
I stop with one arm still inside my coat. “What guy?”
“I do not know. Tall. Russian. Looked expensive and unfriendly.”
“That describes most of the men I work with. You’ll have to be more specific. Did he give a name?”
“He did not say.”
I close the door behind me. “What did he say?”
“He asked whether Taylor Hayes lived here.”
My stomach tightens. “What did you tell him?”
“That she moved to Siberia.”
“Anya.”
“What? I did not tell him anything.”
“Did you let him inside?”
She looks offended. “Obviously not.”
“What else did he ask?”
“When you usually get home. Whether you still work for Mikhail Korolev.” I pull my purse off my coat, untangling it from the arm that it’s now trapped in.
The cereal box crinkles in Anya’s hand, and she watches me with confused amusement, her lips pushed up into her nose and her eyebrows scrunched together. “Taylor?”
I pull the folder out of my purse and flip through the photos. I fold it so that she can’t see herself in it and show her just the man I recognized from the photographs of Orlov. “Is this him?”
“I…think so? This is a terrible photo.”
I look toward the narrow hallway leading to our bedrooms, a yawning pit growing in my stomach. “Did he leave?”
“Eventually.”
“You’re sure?”
“I mean, I did not watch him go. What is wrong with you?”
I look around, my heart in my throat. The apartment looks normal. The sofa cushions are where they belong. Anya’s shoes are scattered near the radiator. Two mugs sit in the sink because neither of us ever washes one immediately after using it.
Nothing is out of place. Then I notice my bedroom door.
I left it closed this morning, but it’s open now.
The apartment isn’t perfectly flat. Sometimes when you close the front door, the air pops the bedroom door open.
That’s what I tell the thrumming in my heart as I press my palm to my chest and rub in circles.
I walk down the hallway and push the door wider.
My room has been searched. Not robbed. Searched.
My desk drawers have been pulled out and emptied across the floor.
The mattress sits crooked on the frame. Books have been shaken open and discarded.
Clothes spill from the wardrobe. My laptop is still on the desk.
The money hidden beneath my socks is still there.
A photograph of my parents that had been tucked into the corner of my mirror is lying face down beside the bed. I pick it up. Someone wanted information.
Behind me, Anya inhales sharply. “That man did this?”
“I don’t know.”
“You do know.”
My phone is already in my hand. I call Mikhail.
He answers immediately. “What happened?”
“Someone came to my apartment looking for me. He asked Anya if I still worked for you. He knew my name. He knew your name. He searched my room.” I realize that while I started the phone call calmly, halfway through I started wailing.
“Arkady is coming. Pack your bags. One bag. Pack one bag. I will be there shortly.”
A hard knock lands against the front door before he even finishes speaking. Anya jumps. “Who is that?” she shrieks, her blue eyes wide. She grabs me.
“It’s okay,” I tell her, and when she unlocks the door, Arkady enters with a gun already drawn. She screams, but I shake my head at her. She relaxes visibly as he moves through the apartment, checking around corners and clearing each room.
“Arkady’s here. But Mikhail, Anya still lives here, she could be fucking killed, I can’t just leave her here!” I’m fully screaming, tears running down my neck. Anya reaches to hug me, but I push her back, like turning down the radio to look at the road. I need to focus.
“He does not want her, Taylor,” he says to soothe me. And it’s sick that him promising someone wants to kill me, not my roommate, soothes me, but it does.
Mikhail arrives eleven minutes later with two other men I do not recognize. Arkady meets him at the door, says something quietly, then gives a short nod toward the hallway. The men move through the apartment again before one of them returns and confirms that no one else is inside.
Mikhail’s gaze moves over me, then Anya. His hand closes briefly around the back of my neck. The touch is not gentle enough to be comfort and not controlling enough to be restraint. It is only proof to himself that I am here.
“Are either of you hurt?” he asks. I shake my head, but I am hurt. My pride is hurt, and I’m terrified, and I feel guilty I put my friend in this position. Mikhail turns back to me. “You are coming with me.”
I look around the ruined apartment. This morning, I refused because I believed his fear was another method of control. Now someone working for Orlov has held my mother’s photograph in his hands. “Only temporarily,” I say.
“Yes.”
“And I’m keeping my job.”
“We will discuss that.”
“No. We won’t.” I force myself to meet his eyes. “I need the money.”
“You do not. And you cannot. He knows where you work.”
“Yes. With you. You can keep me safe.”
“You know that I cannot take you home with me from work. If you work for me, we cannot be seen in a relationship.”
“I need the money.”
“Stop saying that.”
“But I do. I send it home.”
“I know.”
“Oh, right. I forgot investigation is apparently your love language.”
His gaze sharpens at the word. I regret it immediately and continue steamrolling him, hoping my chatter will make him forget my use of it.
“Then you know that my parents are behind on the restaurant. My dad keeps covering payroll with credit cards, and every month I send home whatever I can because they’re trying not to lose it. ”
“I will buy the restaurant.”
For several seconds, I cannot speak. “What?”
“I will purchase it. Problem solved.”
“You cannot buy a restaurant just because I need to—”
“Yes, I can.”
“Well. But. You shouldn’t.”
“It solves the problem.”
“It makes other worse problems.”
“Name one.”
“Mainly, then you own my family’s business.”
“That is not a problem.”
“Oh, that’s a problem.”
“We will discuss it.”
“No, we won’t.”
“Pack one suitcase.”
Before I turn to go to my room, Arkady appears at the end of the hallway. “Clear,” he tells Mikhail.
I look at him. “What do you think he was looking for?”
Mikhail shrugs. “Maybe leverage. Maybe just letting me know he is closing in. Playing with his food before he eats it.”
Anya’s mouth drops open. For a second, she only stares at him. Then she takes my elbow and drags me into the bedroom. “Taylor,” she says quietly once we are inside. I look at her. She gestures around my ruined room. “This happened because of him.”
“I know.”
“You cannot go with him.”
“He’ll keep me safe.”
“You believe that?”
“I do.”
Her expression changes in a way I don’t like. Fear, maybe. Or disbelief that I can say that after everything she has just seen. She pulls me into a hug. When she lets go, I realize that her tears are on the shoulder of my shirt, and my tears are on the shoulder of her shirt.
We gather clothes while two armed men stand in the hallway. I’m folding a sweater when Mikhail comes to see what’s taking so long. “You will not need that,” he remarks glibly.
“It’s a sweater. This is Russia. I’ll definitely need a sweater.”
“I can buy you more sweaters.”
“I don’t want more.” He looks genuinely confused by this. I shove the sweater into my suitcase. “And Anya cannot stay here tonight.”
“I already arranged a room for her.”
Anya turns on him. “You arranged what?”
“A hotel under another name. Sofia Morozova. My driver will take you there.”
“I do not need your driver.”
“You do tonight.”
Anya opens her mouth. I touch her arm. “I know he can be overbearing, but please. For tonight.”
She looks at me, and her anger fades. “If he gets me killed, I will kill you,” she says, and it’s the first time I’ve laughed all day.
She turns to Mikhail. “And if you get her killed—”
“You will kill me. Reasonable. If I get her killed, I will kill myself,” he says.
It is so solemn that it sounds like the truth, and I suddenly feel ill.
Every time I enter Mikhail’s house, it’s less welcoming than I last remembered it. Marble floors. Dark wood. Paintings of severe men who look as though they disapproved of joy while alive and have continued the habit in death.
Mikhail leads me upstairs.
The room he gives me is bigger than my entire apartment. There’s a fireplace, a sitting area, a private bathroom, and a bed large enough to sleep a small family. My suitcase looks ridiculous beside it.
“This is temporary,” I remind him.
“Yes.”
“You keep agreeing too quickly.”
“What would you prefer?”
“For you to mean it.”
His expression closes. “I have work to finish,” he says. “A guard will remain outside.”
“I don’t need a guard inside the house.”
“You are not familiar with the house.”
“Is it dangerous too?”
“Only in certain rooms.”
I can’t tell whether he’s joking. He leaves before I can ask.
I unpack one sweater, decide I resent the furniture, and go searching for the kitchen. I find two staircases, a locked study, an empty dining room, and what may be a ballroom before admitting that I have no idea where I am. I refuse to ask the guard. I will not give Mikhail the satisfaction.
At the end of another corridor, I find a partly open door and hear the soft turning of a page. I push it wider. Mikhail’s mother sits near the fireplace with a book in her lap.
She looks up, and I grip the handle of the suitcase I am inexplicably still dragging behind me. “I’m not snooping.” Her eyebrows rise. “I’m just not very good with dreary mansions.”
She laughs. It’s warm and delighted and completely out of place in this house. “Come in,” she says. “I have been waiting to have a real conversation with the woman who makes my son unreasonable.”
I glance back at the endless corridor. “I think he was unreasonable before me.”
Nikita’s smile widens. “Yes,” she says. “I am going to like you.”