18. Cara
CARA
Dmitri’s truth follows me from the kitchenette. He said jealousy, then fear, and he didn’t bury either one under guards and protocol. He didn’t blame Sergei, Yuri, Kirill, or the hot dogs.
He looked at me across mustard, onions, and ruined buns, and admitted the part most men would hide. I should treat that like another trap, but my body isn’t cooperating.
When I reach my rooms, my hands are shaking.
My mouth remembers how close he came to touching me, and my brain keeps replaying his voice.
After ten minutes, the room starts getting on my nerves.
The lamps are bright, the curtains look heavy, and every polished surface shows me a face I don’t want to study.
I step into the corridor. No one stops me. From the doorway, I can see light coming from Dmitri’s temporary office.
I need work. Work makes sense. Fields, times, routes, and names stay where I put them. Files don’t stare at me, and spreadsheets don’t stand in doorways admitting jealousy with that face.
I cross to his office.
Sergei stands outside the open door. Inside, Yuri is bent over the monitor, pointing at something on the screen while Dmitri stands beside the table.
“The hot dog incident has been logged, patched, and emotionally unresolved,” I say from the doorway. “I’d like to return to finding the men ruining my life.”
Yuri looks from me to Dmitri and says nothing.
Dmitri lifts his chin toward the chair. “Sit.”
I walk in and take the chair near the terminal.
Dmitri takes the seat near the worktable. He doesn’t come close, and I know he’s doing it because of what happened in the kitchenette. It doesn’t make this easier, so I pretend not to notice.
Yuri checks the monitor, then nods. “You can work.”
“Evan Mercer files,” I say.
Yuri pulls up the packet. “Halden Rowe Compliance Services. Finance operations, mid-level access, vendor review windows, payment holds, and beneficiary confirmations.”
“Boring,” I say.
“Mostly.”
“Boring is useful,” I say, leaning toward the screen. “People trust dull systems. They stop checking the corners.”
Halden Rowe did vendor reviews for a Boston charity processor a year ago. The processor later appears inside Morozov’s humanitarian network under a new name, then again under another one.
Evan’s credentials touched review windows, payment holds, flagged batches, staff assignments, and maintenance dates.
None of it looks dramatic. That’s why it works.
I hate how easily I can think like Patrick.
A normal person would see date ranges, account teams, flagged payments, and notes about system downtime.
Patrick would see a map. He’d know who touched what, which clerk stayed late, which batch froze, and which woman might talk in a kitchen while her boyfriend felt useful.
My fingers slow over the keys. Kathryn’s kitchen rises in my head. The chipped mug by the sink. Pasta steam on the window. Mikhail’s cartoon playing in the living room. Toy cars near the rug. The blue lunchbox by the door.
Evan leans against the counter in my memory with his easy, forgettable smile, and my stomach turns hard.
Patrick didn’t break through my wall. He walked in through a man who wanted to feel important.
Yuri leans forward. “Recovered fragment from Patrick to Evan.”
“Put it up,” I say.
The message appears in a plain gray box.
Tell K she worries so much. You’re the only one who gets her to relax.
My hands stop over the keyboard.
Yuri scrolls to the next fragment.
Cara always thinks she’s in a spy film.
My mouth goes dry. Evan worked at Halden Rowe.
Halden Rowe handled money for a charity processor.
That processor later became part of Morozov’s humanitarian network.
Patrick looked into Evan’s private life and found Kathryn.
After that, he found her preschool. Mikhail spends his mornings at that same school.
Evan wasn’t only useful for finance. He was useful because he stood near my son.
“Water,” I say.
Yuri starts to rise.
Dmitri stops him with one look. “Sergei.”
Sergei steps out.
I keep my attention on the screen. If I turn my head, the room might move with me. My head feels blank. My hands don’t feel like mine.
Dmitri says my name once. “Cara.”
“Don’t,” I say.
He stops. His hand doesn’t touch my shoulder. His voice doesn’t turn into another question. He knows I’m hiding something, but he doesn’t force it out of me. That is harder than pressure. I don’t know what to do with a man who stops when I ask him to.
Sergei returns with a glass of water and sets it beside my left hand. “Miss O’Connell.”
“Thanks,” I say, and my voice comes back thin.
Panic can have me later. Right now, panic can sit down and hold a pencil.
I drink, set the glass down, and drag the file list back into order. “Search Halden Rowe vendor reviews against Morozov-linked medical shipments. Use Evan’s access windows.”
Yuri turns back to his monitor. “Running.”
The search moves through names and numbers.
I draw two columns on a legal pad. Evan’s work access goes on one side, and Kathryn’s life goes on the other.
Dates start matching. Neighborhoods repeat.
Evan’s work files and Kathryn’s daily routine begin showing up near the same places.
He could hear something at Kathryn’s kitchen table, then use his job to check it later.
Evan heard pieces at home. Patrick gave him work reasons to search for them.
So I search the way Patrick would’ve asked him to search.
Most results are useless. Medical gloves, expired clinic stock, freight codes.
Charity processors using new names over old accounts.
Then one batch opens under New Harbor Medical Aid.
Pediatric masks, child nutrition packs, small blankets, inhaler kits.
Yuri almost closes it. “Another cover batch.”
“Wait,” I say.
He stops. A clinic reference sits three lines down.
Boston. I know that neighborhood, and I know that clinic.
Kathryn once argued with a receptionist there after Mikhail’s cough wouldn’t settle.
The same clinic appears in Evan’s work files under a humanitarian route he could access.
Patrick didn’t need Mikhail’s name in the file.
He only needed Evan to confirm the clinic, because that gave him a real place to start looking.
My lungs forget their job. Mikhail’s red toy car flashes behind my eyes. Pancake syrup on his fingers. His laugh when he says mechanic like “meck-a-nick.” His small body asleep in Kathryn’s apartment while men across an ocean turn children’s supplies into warning labels.
Everyone else sees a suspicious shipment. I see my son. Dmitri sees me see him. His face doesn’t change.
“What does the clinic mean?” he asks.
My mouth moves before my brain catches up. “Kathryn lives near there.”
Yuri glances at the screen. Abramov stands in the doorway now, drawn by the file alert. Sergei waits behind him. Dmitri looks at me for one long second. He caught the lie. He chooses to bury it.
I want to shake him, because some awful part of me knows he’s the only person in this house who could protect the name I’m still refusing to give him.
“Secure the batch,” he says. “Trace every related Boston reference. Isolate the clinic, the delivery route, the maintenance window, and any names tied to Evan’s access.”
Yuri nods and starts exporting the batch to a sealed case folder.
“Abramov,” Dmitri says.
“I’ll seal the New Harbor batch,” Abramov replies. “No one outside this team sees the Boston clinic reference unless I approve it.”
“Everyone out.”
Abramov steps out first. Yuri looks as if he wants to object, then sees Dmitri’s face. He freezes the search on Dmitri’s terminal and follows. The printed summary lies on the table. Sergei remains last. His gaze touches my face for one second, careful and kind. Then he leaves.
The door closes behind Sergei. Dmitri stays across the table. My hand slides over the printed summary. He has already seen enough on my face. No step brings him closer.
His voice remains level. “Who is in Boston, Cara?”
“Kathryn.”
“No,” he says.
The word gets past every defense I have left and finds the truth waiting.
My palm sweats against the printed summary. Pediatric masks, small blankets, child nutrition packs. The file looks harmless until I see the clinic. Patrick used Evan to find a place connected to Mikhail. He knew I’d understand who he was pointing at.
Dmitri waits. His question is no longer about trust. He’s asking who I love more than myself, and I can’t give him that answer without giving him everything.
My fingers curl over the page. “Don’t try to dig through every part of my life.” The warning sounds weak even to me.
His gaze darkens, but his voice stays even. “If Morozov knows that place, it’s no longer safe.”
I push the file an inch away. “Your files won’t make it safer.”
“My men can.”
For a while, I say nothing.
Then I make myself give him the truth he can handle. “Kathryn has neighbors, a school, a grocery store, a landlord. Her front door sticks in winter. Your men can’t walk into that life without changing it forever.”
Dmitri holds my stare. “Patrick already entered.”
Somewhere in Boston, Mikhail may be eating toast. Maybe he is lining cars on the floor. He’s asking Kathryn whether I’m back from my emergency trip. My brother has put his shadow over that world.
Dmitri moves one inch closer, then stops. He wants the truth from me so badly, I can feel it across the table.
“I won’t write the name down unless you tell me to,” he says.
“You expect me to believe that?”
“No.” His mouth barely moves. “I expect you to remember that I stopped.”
The space closes around us. He did stop. In the library. In the kitchenette. Here. Each time I said no, he heard it. I pull the printed summary closer. Dmitri watches the movement, then returns his attention to my face.
“The clinic is a warning,” I say.
“Yes.”
“Patrick wants me scared enough to make a mistake.”
“Then don’t give him one.”
A laugh leaves me, small and cracked. “Amazing. Why didn’t I think of that?”
“You’re thinking like someone alone.”
My hand tightens around the paper. I can’t make myself hand him that much of my life. Dmitri watches me do it. He knows that one careful question could take him straight to Boston.