Chapter 6
NOEMI
When the door shuts behind that ogre of a man I suck in a breath to help ease the stress in my ribcage.
My wrists ache where the rope cut into them and the skin burns, spreading up my forearms. I press my palms flat against my thighs and feel the dampness of my own sweat soaking through the fabric of my pants.
My throat tightens and I swallow hard against the pressure building behind my eyes. I won't cry in front of Sasha. What he needs right now is to see me being calm and confident so he understands this environment is safe for him, even though I'm not entirely sure it's safe for anyone.
He stands near the bed with his small hands curled into fists at his sides and his shoulders drawn up toward his ears in a posture that makes him look even younger than ten years old.
His face is pale except for the red blotches around his eyes and the flush across his cheeks from crying.
He stares at the floor and his chest rises and falls in uneven jerks that tell me he's fighting to keep himself together.
I force my legs to move and cross the distance between us, and he flinches when I crouch down in front of him, but he doesn't pull away.
I reach out slowly and rest my hand on his shoulder and feel the tremor running through his entire body as his eyes lift to mine.
They're wide and dark and filled with fear, much the same way I felt weeks ago when I thought he'd gotten lost in the snowy brush.
"Sasha," I croak and then clear my voice to try again. "Sweetheart, I need you to look at me."
He does, and his lower lip quivers, but he holds my gaze.
"Are you hurt anywhere?" I run my eyes over him quickly and check for bruises or cuts or any sign that he's been physically harmed. "Did anyone touch you or hurt you in any way?"
"No, ma'am." His voice is so quiet, I almost don't hear it. "I'm not hurt."
"Good." I squeeze his shoulder gently and feel some of the tension ease out of my own chest. "That's very good. Now I need you to tell me something and I need you to be honest with me, alright?"
He nods.
"Do you know that man who brought me here?" My heart is hammering so hard, it's difficult to keep my voice steady. "Have you ever seen him before today?"
Sasha shakes his head and fresh tears spill down his cheeks. "No, ma'am. I never seen him before." Smiling at his misuse of the word, I nod and cup his cheek.
"Has he told you why you're here in this house?"
"He said my mamochka is gone and he's my father now." The words break apart halfway through and he sucks in a shuddering breath. "But I don't want him to be my father. I want my mamochka. I want to go home."
The grief in his voice is so raw, it makes my own chest tighten in response. I pull him against me and wrap my arms around his thin frame and feel him collapse into the embrace.
His fingers dig into the back of my coat and his face presses into my shoulder as he sobs. He doesn't understand why his world's been ripped apart. This is exactly what I feared would happen—not the strange, overbearing father type, but the distraught pain he's in.
I hold him and rock slightly and make soft shushing sounds that do nothing to ease the pain but at least let him know he's not alone in it.
Minutes pass before his crying subsides into hiccups and then into ragged breathing. I ease him back and wipe the tears from his face with my thumbs and try to give him a reassuring smile even though my own face feels frozen. His eyes search mine and I see the question there before he asks it.
"Are you going to leave me too?"
I open my mouth and close it again because I don't know what to tell him. The truth is that I want to leave. I want to run as far from this house as I can get and I want to call the police and have that man arrested for what he's done.
But the truth is also that Sasha's standing in front of me asking me not to abandon him, and I can't bring myself to lie to his face.
"I'm not going anywhere right now." I smooth his hair back from his forehead and feel the dampness of his sweat against my palm. "Right now, I'm staying here with you and we're going to figure this out together, alright?"
He nods and some of the panic in his expression eases.
"Good." I straighten and glance around the room for the first time since we were brought in here.
The space is medium-sized with a queen bed pushed against one wall and a simple wooden dresser across from it.
There's a door that I assume leads to a bathroom and blackout curtains covering the window that block out whatever view might exist beyond the glass.
The furniture is sparse and functional and there's nothing personal or decorative about any of it.
"I need you to do something for me, sweetheart. Can you do that?"
"Yes, ma'am."
I move to the dresser and pull open the top drawer and find it empty except for a few spare linens.
The second drawer holds nothing. The third has a small notepad and a pencil tucked into the back corner, and I pull them out and hold them up for Sasha to see.
His eyes track the movement but he doesn't speak.
"I want you to draw me a picture." I walk back to him and press the notepad and pencil into his hands. "Can you draw me a picture of your mamochka? The way you remember her?"
He stares down at the blank page and his fingers tighten around the pencil. "Why?"
"Because I think she'd really cherish having a drawing from you, don't you?"
His face brightens slightly and he nods. I don’t know what that beast of a man has told this boy about his mother, and I don't want to be the one to tell him she's dead. If that’s even true. "She would. She always kept my drawings on the refrigerator at home."
"Then let's make this one special for her.
" I guide him to the bed and help him sit down with his back against the headboard and his legs stretched out in front of him.
"Take your time and make it as detailed as you can.
I'm going to look around the room for a minute, but I'm right here if you need me. "
He bends over the notepad and starts sketching with slow, careful strokes, and I watch him for a moment to make sure he's settled before I turn toward the door.
My legs feel unsteady and my hands shake as I reach for the handle.
The metal is cool against my palm, and I twist it slowly and feel my stomach drop when it doesn't turn.
My vision swims slightly as the reality of the situation crashes over me again.
I'm locked in this room and the man who kidnapped both of us is somewhere in this house doing whatever it is men who kidnap people do.
My breath comes faster, and I press my forehead against the door and close my eyes and try to force myself to think rationally through the panic clawing at my insides.
Why would anyone take Sasha and hand him over to this Gravitch character?
If the man truly is his father, then why didn't he know about him until now?
Why would the boy's mother keep that information hidden and then suddenly decide to send her son to a stranger?
And why would that stranger kidnap a teacher to care for the child instead of hiring a nanny through legal channels?
None of this is okay.
I push away from the door and move to the window and pull back the edge of the blackout curtain.
The glass is thick and double-paned and beyond it, I can see the snow-covered yard and the high fence surrounding the property.
The distance to the fence looks manageable, but the height of it doesn't, and I can see the sharp points of iron bars running along the top edge. My stomach twists.
"Miss Dragunova?"
I drop the curtain and turn to find Sasha watching me with wide eyes. His pencil hovers over the notepad and he looks uncertain.
"Yes, sweetheart?"
"Are we prisoners?"
The question is so direct and so perceptive that I don't know how to answer it without lying.
I cross back to the bed and sit down on the edge near his feet and fold my hands in my lap to keep them from shaking.
"I don't know what we are right now. But I know that we're together and we're going to keep each other safe, alright? "
He doesn't look convinced, but he nods and goes back to his drawing.
I sit there and watch him work and try to think of a plan that doesn't involve leaving a frightened child behind.
I have no idea where I am or how far I'd have to run before I found help.
And what would happen to Sasha if I left him here?
Would that man hurt him out of anger? Would he abandon him somewhere?
The questions pile up faster than I can process them, and my throat constricts until I have to focus on breathing in through my nose and out through my mouth in counts of five just to avoid passing out.
Footsteps sound in the hallway outside, and I'm on my feet before I realize I've moved.
My pulse pounds in my ears as I position myself between the door and Sasha without thinking about it.
The footsteps stop outside the door and there's a pause before a key slides into the lock and the mechanism clicks.
The handle turns and the door swings open to reveal the guard who dragged me here standing on the threshold with a tray balanced in his hands.
Steam rises from two covered plates, and I can smell roasted meat and vegetables and bread. My stomach clenches because I haven't eaten since breakfast and that feels like a lifetime ago now.
"Dinner," he says as he steps into the room without waiting for permission. "You should eat."
I don't move and my fingers curl into fists at my sides. The doorway behind him is open and I can see a stretch of hallway and another door farther down, and my legs tense with the urge to run. But Sasha's behind me on the bed and I can't make a move without leaving him vulnerable.
The man sets the tray on the dresser and straightens and his gaze flicks between me and the boy. It's like in that split second, he's read my mind and knows I want to bolt. "Don't try anything stupid."
Then he turns and walks back into the hallway, and I take one step forward before I hear Sasha's voice crack behind me.
"Miss Dragunova?"
I freeze and my throat closes around the words I want to scream at the guard’s retreating back.
The door swings shut and the lock clicks into place, and I stand there staring at the wood grain and feeling my chance slip away.
My hands shake and my vision blurs, and I blink hard against the tears threatening to spill over.
One month ago, I stood on that playground thinking of all the ways I would rescue Sasha Koryabin if I could, and here I am, given a perfect opportunity to lean into the role of nurturing him, and I'm thinking of leaving.
I should be ashamed of myself. Turning, I say, "Yes, baby? " and he smiles at me.
A genuine smile that I've seen a million times on the playground. And I know I can't leave him. Which means whatever this is that Mr. Gravitch has going on, I'm in it for the long haul, or until I can figure out a way to get both of us out of here together.