Nina
I stand by the window in the blue guest room and watch the garden as if something useful might happen if I stare long enough.
Nothing does.
The same guards move along the same paths. The same trees bend slightly in the afternoon wind. The same car has been parked near the side entrance for the last hour, probably with a man inside pretending not to watch my window.
I’m tired of this house.
Which is kind of unfair, given the house has been kind to me in the only way a house can be kind. It’s quiet. It’s safe.
Nobody says prisoner, nobody says trapped, nobody says you are here because your brother might be involved in something terrible.
But the truth is still there.
I press my forehead lightly against the window and close my eyes.
My head hurts less today. That should be a good thing. Instead, it gives me too much room to think.
I sit, sleep, drink tea, answer medical questions, and wait.
I’m sick of waiting.
I turn away from the window and gaze at my purse on the chair.
The purse from the gala.
I haven’t opened it properly since that night. Yelena had it brought from the hospital with my things, and I let it sit there because I knew exactly what was inside.
Roman’s card.
I told myself I would throw it away. But something in me hadn’t let me.
I walk to the chair and take the purse.
My fingers are steadier than I expect when I open it. Lipstick. Compact. A folded tissue. The small card tucked into the side pocket.
Plain black. No name. Only a number.
This is a bad idea, my brain warns me.
I have become very aware lately of bad ideas while doing them anyway.
I dial before I lose my nerve.
The call rings twice.
Then he answers. “Nina.” Roman’s voice is deep. He sounds slightly surprised, but not enough.
I hate that.
“How did you know it was me?”
Roman says, “I gave that number to one person.”
“Maybe I gave it to someone else.”
“Ah, but you didn’t.”
I look toward the closed door of the room, then lower my voice. “I saw the footage.”
There’s a pause.
Roman says, “What footage?”
“Misha and Alina,” I say. “In the stairwell at her building. Luka found it.”
Roman’s quiet for a few seconds.
Then he says, “Tell me exactly what you saw.”
I shouldn’t tell him anything.
I tell him everything.
I tell him about the prisoner naming Misha, the garage keycard, the footage, Alina disappearing, Misha’s location being off, and the fact that Luka is now looking for him.
When I finish, my throat is dry.
Roman says, “Where are you?”
I hesitate.
Roman says, “Nina.”
“I’m at Luka’s house,” I say.
“Of course you are,” Roman says. “I expected him to put you somewhere he could control.”
“He’s trying to keep me safe.”
“That can be true at the same time.”
I hate that he says it calmly.
I hate that part of me understands what he means.
“What do you know?” I ask.
Roman says, “Enough to tell you that Misha did not do what Luka thinks he did.”
My chest tightens. “Then tell Luka.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because Luka’s not listening. He’s reacting. And I’m the last person he’ll listen to.”
I sigh. “What do we do now? We don’t have proof.”
“I didn’t say that,” Roman says.
My eyes fly open. “Then tell me.”
“Not on the phone.”
I stand up, suddenly too restless to stay still. “Why not?”
“Because I don’t know who is near you, and I don’t know what’s being recorded in that house.”
“That’s ridiculous,” I say.
“Is it?” Roman asks. “You’re in Luka Kazan’s house, surrounded by his people, while his men build a case against your brother. Do you know where every phone in that room is? Every camera? Every open laptop? Every guard in the hall?”
I don’t answer.
Roman says, “I’ll text you an address.”
“What’s there?” I ask.
“Someone who can tell you what happened.”
“Who?”
He ignores my question. “Come to the address. Listen. Decide for yourself.”
My phone buzzes against my ear.
A message arrives while Roman is still on the line.
An address.
Roman says, “Come alone.”
“Absolutely not,” I say.
“You must.”
“You realize how insane that sounds?”
“Yes,” Roman says. “But if you bring Luka or Pavel, this ends before you hear anything useful.”
“If this is a trap—”
“It’s not.”
“That means nothing coming from you.”
“Good,” Roman says. “Keep thinking like that.”
Then he hangs up.
For a few seconds, I don’t think.
Then I move.
I change out of the house clothes and into jeans, a loose shirt, and a cardigan because I need to look normal, not like a runaway mistress from a gothic mansion. My hands shake when I pull my hair back. I stop twice because my head throbs, but the pain is manageable.
I put Roman’s card back in my purse, then take it out again and shove it into the pocket of my jeans instead. If someone checks my purse, I don’t want them to find it.
This is a terrible plan.
Really, it’s barely a plan.
But Luka’s not home. He left two hours ago after a call from Sergei, and Yelena told me he would return by dinner if all went well, which in this house means absolutely nothing.
Pavel is here.
That’s the real problem.
Pavel’s always here lately.
I leave the room and walk downstairs slowly, making sure I don’t look like someone trying to escape. The guard at the end of the hallway straightens when he sees me.
“Miss Hale,” he says. “Do you need something?”
“I need to go to the hospital,” I say.
The lie comes out more smoothly than I expected.
His face changes. “Are you feeling unwell?”
“My head is hurting more,” I say. “Mirov said I should come in if that happens.”
It’s not fully a lie.
My head does hurt.
It’s just not the reason I need to leave.
“I’ll inform Mr. Semyonov,” the guard says.
Of course he will.
Within three minutes, Pavel appears in the entrance hall with his phone in hand.
Behind him comes Yelena.
She must have heard hospital, because her face is calm, but her eyes have sharpened.
“What happened?” Yelena asks.
I instantly feel guilty.
She’s been nothing but kind to me.
“My headache is worse,” I say. “I think I should get checked.”
Yelena steps closer and looks at me properly. “Dizzy?”
“A little,” I say.
That one is also half true, because I’m anxious enough to feel lightheaded.
Pavel says, “I’ll call Mirov and have him come here.”
“No,” I say too quickly.
Pavel looks at me.
I correct myself. “I mean, I’d rather go to the hospital. They have the scan machines there if needed.”
Yelena turns to Pavel. “Take her.”
Pavel says, “Mrs. Kazan, it may be safer to bring Mirov here first.”
Yelena says, “She was discharged with instructions to return if symptoms worsened.”
Pavel says, “I understand that, but Mr. Kazan is not here, and moving her without—”
Yelena’s voice cools. “Don’t finish that sentence.”
Pavel goes quiet.
Yelena says, “She’s not furniture in my house. She says she needs the hospital, so she goes to the hospital.”
The guilt gets worse.
I look down.
Pavel says, “I will arrange the car.”
Yelena says, “Good.”
Then she turns to me, and the softness returns. “I’m coming with you.”
Panic kicks under my ribs. “No, please don’t. You don’t have to.”
Yelena studies me.
For one awful second, I think she knows.
Maybe she does.
I say, “I don’t want to make a big thing of it. If Luka comes back and you’re not here, he’ll lose his mind.”
Yelena says, “He loses his mind often.”
Despite everything, I almost smile.
“I know,” I say. “But please. Let me just go, get checked, and come back.”
Yelena’s eyes stay on mine.
Then she says, “Pavel will take you. Two guards. No more, unless you need them.”
Pavel looks like he wants to object.
Yelena does not give him the chance.
She takes my hands. “Call me after Mirov sees you.”
“I will,” I say.
Another lie. I hate myself a little.
The car arrives five minutes later.
Pavel sits in the front passenger seat. I sit in the back with one guard beside the driver and another car behind us. I keep my face turned toward the window and try not to look guilty.
At the hospital, Pavel gets out first and opens my door.
“We’ll go straight to Mirov’s office,” Pavel says.
“I need the restroom first,” I say.
He pauses.
I look at him. “Pavel, I have a concussion, not a tracking collar.”
His face gives nothing away. “The restroom near Mirov’s office is more secure.”
“I’m not walking across the hospital looking like I’m about to be escorted into witness protection because I need to pee.”
The guard behind him looks uncomfortable.
Pavel says, “Fine. This one.”
He gestures toward the restroom near the side entrance.
A woman with a child walks out as I go in.
I look around quickly.
Two stalls. One sink.
And a one narrow, frosted window high on the wall.
No exit. Damn it.
I wash my hands because I need a few seconds to think. Then I notice the cleaning door beside the sink. It is not an exit, but it opens into a small supply alcove with another door at the far end.
I try it.
Unlocked.
For once, luck chooses me.
The second door opens into a service corridor.
I slip through, closing it gently behind me.
My heart’s pounding so hard I feel it in my head.
I move quickly but not fast enough to stumble. The service corridor leads to a staff exit near the delivery bay. A nurse passes me, glances once, and keeps walking. I act like I know where I’m going, because apparently confidence is half of trespassing.
Outside, the afternoon sun hits too brightly.
I call a cab from the street instead of the hospital entrance and walk two buildings down before waiting. My phone buzzes twice.
Pavel.
Then again.
Pavel.
I don’t answer.
A message follows.
Where are you?
Then another.
Miss Hale, answer your phone.
Then Yelena.
Nina? Did you reach safely?
That one hurts.
I almost stop.
Then I think of Misha on that grainy staircase footage, Alina’s face turned over her shoulder, and Luka’s voice saying he took her.
I get into the cab when it arrives.
The driver says, “Address?”
I read Roman’s message and give it to him.
The city feels too loud after Luka’s house. Horns, traffic, people crossing between cars, vendors shouting from the footpath. I sit in the back seat and keep one hand near my phone, watching the blue dot move toward the address.
Pavel keeps calling.
Then an unknown number.
Then Luka.
My chest tightens when his name appears.
I let it ring.
The cab turns into the old district twenty-two minutes later.
The building Roman sent me to is plain, four floors, faded cream paint, laundry on one balcony, a broken nameplate near the entrance. Nothing about it looks like the place where a missing woman connected to all of Luka’s problems would be hiding.
Maybe that is the point.
I pay the driver in cash and step out.
My legs feel weak, but I keep moving.
Third floor. Apartment 3C.
The stairs smell like dust, cooking oil, and old rainwater. I climb slowly because my head is starting to throb again, and by the time I reach the third floor, I have to stop with one hand on the wall.
I almost turn back.
Then I see the door.
3C.
I knock.
For a moment, nothing happens.
Then the lock turns.
My whole body goes cold before my brain catches up.
The chain slides back. The door opens wider.
Alina Karelin stands in front of me.
For a second, I cannot breathe.
Not because she looks glamorous, or smug, or anything like the woman who walked into Luka’s office and dropped the word pregnant like a bomb.
She looks nothing like that woman now.
Her hair is loose and unwashed, falling around her face in dark waves.
Her skin is pale. There are shadows under her eyes, and one side of her mouth has a small split near the corner.
She’fs wearing leggings, an oversized sweater, and no shoes.
One hand is wrapped around the edge of the door. The other rests low on her stomach.
Protective. Unconscious. Terrifying.
I take a step back without meaning to. “No,” I whisper.
Alina’s eyes flick past me into the hallway, frightened and quick. Then she looks at me again.
“You came,” Alina says. Her voice is hoarse.
I stare at her. “What the hell is going on?”