18. Zoya
ZOYA
By the time Mila and Nadia fall asleep, I feel like I’ve aged ten years.
They ask too many questions.
Mila wants to know if the man in the kitchen is going to die. Nadia wants to know if the police will come. Mila asks if bullets always make so much blood. Nadia tells her not to ask that because “Mama looks unwell.”
I sit between their beds and keep my voice calm because they need calm from me, even if I have none left. “He is not going to die,” I tell Mila.
Mila clutches her ruined paper crown against her chest. “Are you sure?”
“I’m sure enough.”
Nadia watches me from under her blanket. “That’s not the same as sure.”
“No,” I say. “But it is bedtime.”
Mila sniffles. “He was nice.”
I pause.
Ruslan Karelin has been called many things. Nice is probably not one of them.
“He was hurt,” I say carefully.
“He told me he would try not to die,” Mila says.
Nadia says, “That was not a medically strong promise.”
I press my fingers against my eyes for one second. “Both of you, please sleep.”
Mila looks toward the door. “Will you stay close?”
“I’ll be in the kitchen.”
“That’s not close,” Nadia says.
“In this apartment, it is,” I say.
That seems to work.
I kiss Mila first. Then Nadia.
Nadia grabs my wrist before I can leave. “Mama,” she says quietly.
“Yes?”
“Don’t let anyone bad come inside.”
I swallow. “I won’t.”
She studies my face like she’s checking the promise for cracks. Then she lets go.
I leave the bedroom door slightly open. For a moment, I stand in the hallway and listen to them settle. Mila whispers something. Nadia answers in a low voice. Then the room slowly goes quiet.
I turn back toward the kitchen.
Ruslan is still sitting at my table. He has one leg stretched out, the bandage around his thigh dark with blood. His shirt is open at the collar. His face is pale, but his eyes are alert.
He looks completely wrong in my kitchen.
“Are they asleep?” he asks.
“For now.”
He nods once.
I wait for him to say something else.
He does not.
Good.
Bad.
I don’t know.
Karina comes in from the balcony with her phone in her hand. She has been speaking quietly out there for the last few minutes. Her hair is loose around her face, and she looks almost as tired as I feel.
“Dr. Mehra is coming,” she says.
I look at her. “Now?”
“She said twenty minutes.”
“So late?” I ask. “What did you tell her?”
Karina puts the phone down on the counter. “That it was urgent.”
“Karina.”
“I didn’t say bullet wound,” she says quickly. “I said you needed help and couldn’t go to a clinic.”
I stare at her. “She’s going to walk in and see a bullet wound.”
“I know.”
“She’s the girls’ pediatrician.”
“I know that too.”
“So what exactly is the plan?”
Karina glances at Ruslan, then back at me. “The plan is that she gets here, sees what it is, gets angry, and helps anyway.”
“That’s not a plan.”
“It’s the closest thing we have.”
Ruslan speaks from the table. “Can she be trusted?”
I turn to him. “She treats my children.”
“That is not what I asked.”
I scowl. “You’re not in any position to question my decision.”
“You were literally thinking the same thing just minutes ago,” he says, raising a brow. “Besides, I need to know who exactly I’m going to be treated by.”
Before I can say anything else, Karina says, “She can be trusted.”
Both of us look at her. Karina’s voice is firm, but there’s something under it. Something personal.
I narrow my eyes. “Why did you say it like that?”
Karina looks away and starts picking up the used towels from the counter. “Like what?”
“Like you know more than her clinic schedule.”
“This is not the time.”
I let out a short laugh. “Apparently nothing is the time tonight.”
Karina stops moving.
That’s when I remember.
The kindergarten. Her hand on my wrist. Zoya, there’s something you should know.
Before I can ask, the doorbell rings.
Karina checks the peephole. “It’s her.”
She opens the door. Dr. Mehra steps inside with a medical bag in her hand. She’s wearing a coat over casual clothes, her hair tied back. She looks tired, but alert.
Her eyes go to Karina first. “Are you hurt?” she asks.
Karina shakes her head. “No.”
Dr. Mehra looks at her for another second. “You’re sure?”
“I’m sure,” Karina says.
There’s something in the way they look at each other. I notice it, even with everything else happening.
Then Dr. Mehra sees Ruslan.
Her expression changes at once. She shuts the door behind her and walks to the kitchen table. “Move him closer to the light.”
Ruslan looks at her. “You’re Dr. Mehra?”
“Yes,” she says, opening her bag. “Can I ask what happened?”
“I’ll explain later,” Karina says quietly.
Karina helps me shift the chair while Dr. Mehra pulls on gloves. Ruslan doesn’t complain, but his jaw tightens when his leg moves.
Dr. Mehra cuts through the bandage and examines the wound. “When was he shot?” she asks.
“Less than an hour ago,” Ruslan says.
“Exit wound?”
“Yes.”
“Dizziness?”
“No.”
I say, “He may lie.”
Dr. Mehra looks at him. “Do you?”
Ruslan says, “When needed.”
“Not with me,” Dr. Mehra says.
Karina exhales softly, almost like a laugh.
Dr. Mehra glances at her. “Karina, can you get clean towels and warm water?”
Karina nods. “Yes.”
I start to move too, but Dr. Mehra stops me. “Stay,” she says. “I need you to hold pressure while I prepare.”
So I stand beside Ruslan and press the towel where she tells me to press. My hands are steady only because they have to be.
Ruslan looks up at me once.
I don’t look back.
Karina returns with towels and a bowl of warm water. Dr. Mehra takes them, then says, “I can handle this for a minute. Zoya, wash your hands. You have blood on them.”
I look down.
She’s right. There’s blood on my fingers, under my nails, on the side of my wrist.
Karina touches my elbow. “Come.”
I let her pull me into the hallway. The second we’re out of the kitchen, I turn on her. “What is going on with you and Dr. Mehra?”
Karina blinks. “That’s your first question?”
I raise a brow.
She rubs both hands over her face. “We can talk about that later.”
“Fine,” I say. “Then tell me what you were going to say at the kindergarten.”
She goes still.
I lower my voice. “You said there was something I should know.”
She looks toward the kitchen.
Ruslan can’t see us from here. Dr. Mehra is speaking to him quietly while opening supplies.
Karina still lowers her voice more. “It’s about the number,” she says.
My stomach tightens. “What number?”
She looks at me.
I know before she says it. The unknown number.
My phone suddenly feels heavy in my pocket.
“What about it?” I ask.
Her eyes fill with guilt. “Do you know who you’ve been texting all these years?”
I stare at her. “No.”
She swallows. “Zoya.”
Before she can say anything else, Dr. Mehra calls from the kitchen. “Karina? I need those towels now.”
Karina shuts her mouth. For a second, we just look at each other in the hallway.
“What were you going to say?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “Later.”
“No. Don’t do that.”
Dr. Mehra calls again, sharper this time. “Karina.”
Karina turns immediately. “Coming.” She takes the towels and goes back into the kitchen.
I stand in the hallway for another second, trying to steady myself.
Something is wrong. Not just the shooting. Not just Ruslan being here. Not just the fact that he’s sitting in my kitchen after six years like the past has decided to bleed on my floor.
Karina knows something. And whatever it is, she’s afraid to say it.
I walk back into the kitchen.
Dr. Mehra has moved Ruslan’s chair closer to the light. His leg is stretched out, his trouser fabric cut open around the wound. There’s blood on the towel under his thigh, on Dr. Mehra’s gloves, and on the floor by the chair.
Ruslan’s face is still pale, but he looks alert. He watches the room like he’s making a map of it.
Dr. Mehra looks up when I enter. “Wash your hands, then hold this gauze here. Firm pressure. Don’t lift unless I tell you.”
I do what she says. There’s no space for questions after that.
Dr. Mehra works quickly. She cleans the wound, checks the exit point, asks Ruslan short questions, and doesn’t let him get away with vague answers.
“When was your last tetanus shot?” she asks.
Ruslan says, “I don’t remember.”
Dr. Mehra pauses and looks at him. “You should.”
“I don’t.”
“Fine. Add that to the list.”
Karina stands near the counter, handing over whatever Dr. Mehra asks for. Warm water. More gauze. Medical tape. A trash bag. She’s quiet, but she keeps looking at the doctor in a way I can’t miss.
Dr. Mehra notices too, though she doesn’t say anything.
Ruslan barely reacts when she injects the local anesthetic. His hand grips the edge of the chair once, then relaxes.
Dr. Mehra glances at him. “You can admit that hurts.”
Ruslan says, “It hurts.”
“Good. Honesty saves time,” she says.
After a while, Dr. Mehra finishes stitching the wound and wraps his thigh with a clean bandage.
“It’s not pretty, but it’s manageable,” she says.
“The bullet passed through. No obvious major vessel damage. But this is not a small injury. He needs antibiotics, pain medication, and someone needs to watch for fever, increased bleeding, numbness, swelling, or any change in color below the wound.”
“I heard,” Ruslan says.
Dr. Mehra looks at him. “I’m not saying it for your entertainment.”
Karina makes a quiet sound.
Dr. Mehra points at Ruslan. “No walking unless necessary. No stairs. No pretending you’re fine. If the bleeding starts again, you go to a hospital.”
Ruslan says nothing.
Dr. Mehra says, “That requires an answer.”
Ruslan looks at her. “Understood.”
“Better,” she says.
She packs the used supplies into a bag and ties it tightly. Then she removes her gloves and washes her hands at the sink.
Karina follows her with a clean towel before she even asks. Dr. Mehra takes it from her. Their fingers brush. Karina looks away first.
Dr. Mehra checks on the girls before leaving the kitchen. She goes quietly into their room with me, listens to their breathing, checks their pulse, asks me if either of them hit their head, vomited, fainted, or complained of pain.
“No,” I say. “They were terrified, but not hurt.”
She nods. “They may have nightmares. They may be clingy tomorrow. Don’t force them to talk, but don’t pretend nothing happened either.”
“I know.”
Her face softens a little. “I know you do.”
When we return to the kitchen, Ruslan is still in the chair. Karina stands by the counter with her arms folded, watching him like she’s trying not to throw him out and trying not to ask him anything at the same time.
Dr. Mehra looks at Ruslan. “You need rest. I’m leaving medication instructions with Zoya.”
Ruslan says, “I have my own doctor.”
“I’m sure you do,” Dr. Mehra says. “But tonight you have me.”
For once, he doesn’t argue.
Karina walks Dr. Mehra toward the door, but Dr. Mehra doesn’t leave right away. Instead, she turns to me. “Can I speak to you for a minute?”
I glance at Ruslan. His eyes lift to mine.
I look away first. “Yes.”
We step into the hallway near the front door. Karina comes with us, but stays quiet, leaning against the wall with her arms still folded.
Dr. Mehra lowers her voice. “How do you know him?”
I expected the question. I still don’t have an answer ready.
“He’s someone from my past,” I say.
Dr. Mehra looks unconvinced. “That is very broad.”
“It’s the only answer I have right now.”
She glances toward the kitchen. “He looks dangerous.”
I let out a tired breath. “He is.”
Dr. Mehra’s eyebrows rise slightly. “At least you know that.”
Karina shifts beside her but says nothing.
Dr. Mehra looks back at me. “I’ve dated my fair share of bad boys, Zoya. That man is not a bad boy. He’s something else.”
“Thank you,” I say flatly. “That is very comforting.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
Dr. Mehra studies my face for a second. “Is there something there?”
I frown. “What do you mean?”
“With him.”
“No,” I say quickly, then clear my throat. “Of course not.”
Dr. Mehra says, “I’m asking because of the way he keeps looking at you.”
My stomach tightens. “How is he looking at me?”
She chooses her words carefully. “Like he thinks everyone in the room is temporary except you.”
Karina’s eyes move to my face.
I say nothing.
Dr. Mehra adds, “And like he would bite anyone who came too close.”
That should sound ridiculous. It doesn’t.
It sounds exactly like Ruslan.
I fold my arms. “He looks at everyone like that.”
“No,” Dr. Mehra says. “He doesn’t.”
Karina is too quiet now. I can feel her watching me.
She doesn’t know what really happened all those years ago, in the aftermath of the library attack. She helped me through the pregnancy and held my hair when I threw up and sat beside me during scans when I said I didn’t want to talk about the father.
I told her I went to visit my parents. I told her it was just a hookup that happened in my hometown after the guy comforted me about my nightmares, and I had my fair share of those since the months after the library shooting. So she believed me.
But she doesn’t know what happened before that.
She doesn’t know where I went after Ruslan pulled me out of the library.
To that house outside the city, the one near the water, where the air smelled like salt and rain and expensive wood.
I stayed there longer than I should have.
Long enough to stop being afraid of the silence.
Long enough to learn how he drank his coffee.
Long enough to let him touch me like I was something he had been waiting for and something he could not keep.
Karina doesn’t know about that.
She doesn’t know I slept in his bed.
She doesn’t know the twins are his.
No one knows that part.
Not Karina. Not my parents. Not Ruslan.
It’s a terrible secret to carry, but one that has kept my daughters safe. Until now…
“Zoya?”
I blink. “There’s nothing there.”
Karina looks down. She doesn’t believe me.
Dr. Mehra doesn’t either, but she’s kind enough not to say it directly.
Instead, she says, “Then be careful. Because whatever he feels, it doesn’t look casual.”
I laugh once, quietly. “Nothing with Ruslan has ever been casual.”
Karina’s head lifts.
I realize what I’ve said too late.
Dr. Mehra catches it too.
For a few seconds, none of us speaks.
Then Dr. Mehra gives a small nod, like she understands more than I wanted her to. “Call me if the bleeding starts again. Or if the girls wake up frightened and you need help calming them.”
“I will.”
She looks at Karina. “Walk me out?”
Karina’s face changes. “Yes.”
I look between them. There it is again.
After they leave, I return to my living room. Somehow, I thought Ruslan would have disappeared by now, but he’s still there. He’s too weak to leave. I feel a sliver of relief, and quickly hide it away.
Dr. Mehra was right.
It is not casual. It has never been casual.
And now, with my daughters asleep down the hall and his blood drying on my floor, I have no idea how much longer I can pretend it was.