19. Cara
CARA
Isit for a long time with the paper flat on the table. It’s the one I wrote Mikhail’s name on, then crumpled into a ball instead of giving it to Dmitri.
Dmitri promised he wouldn’t write the name in his files unless I told him to. He kept both hands on the table when he said it, and I noticed because part of me still expected him to take it from me anyway.
I do remember. I’ve spent four years keeping my son away from men like him. Men with guards. With money. Men who buy chocolate for a child they’ve never met and make it sound normal. Now one of those men has promised me restraint, and part of me believes him. That part scares me most.
After midnight, the north wing starts going dark. A lamp stays on near the rear stairs. Another glows down by the library. Outside, floodlights cover the trees by the fence, and guards keep moving across the grounds in the same slow pattern.
Boston is still awake. Mikhail might be home from preschool by now.
He might be on Kathryn’s floor with his cars lined up by color.
Red first, because red is “the boss one”.
He might be eating toast cut into triangles and asking Kathryn in the same breath, between bites, when I’m coming back from my work trip.
I can picture him so clearly, it hurts. His syrup-sticky fingers. The little frown when one wheel on a toy car won’t spin right. Two weeks ago, I found a police car in my coffee mug. He stood beside me in his pajamas, eyes wide, acting offended by the accusation.
“Mama,” he said, “cars need parking.”
I laughed then. Now I’m crying. Fuck.
The suite feels wrong around me. Silk curtains, heavy rugs, fresh flowers, a bed made with corners so neat, they make lying down unwelcome.
I can’t lie down anyway. If I do, I’ll start thinking about Kathryn’s front door.
The stuck lock. The hallway. The neighbor with the loud TV.
The grocery store on the corner. The preschool pickup line.
I’ll start counting all the ordinary places Patrick has managed to touch without saying my son’s name once.
The paper with Mikhail’s name sits on the table. I flatten it, then fold it smaller and smaller, then tuck it inside a towel bundle. Doing something doesn’t calm me down. It only gives my hands somewhere to put the fear.
My first thought is Dmitri. Wake him. Tell him.
Let him take over because that’s what he does. He stands still when everyone else starts moving too fast. He gives one order, and men listen. Problems get smaller when Dmitri looks at them. He would know what to do.
If I tell him, men go to Kathryn’s block. Cars appear near the preschool. His men watch Kathryn’s building, the clinic, and the grocery store on the corner. Mikhail becomes a job, and men like Dmitri protect a job by taking over every inch around it.
No.
I have to move before the house decides for me. The plan comes slowly.
Panic keeps trying to drag me toward the door with no shoes, no coat, and no idea where the first guard stands. I make myself stay by the window until my breathing turns useful again.
The north wing has changed since dinner.
Fewer footsteps pass outside my suite. Voices have dropped behind closed doors.
Somewhere below, a cart rolls over stone, then stops.
A hinge clicks near the service passage.
The house isn’t asleep, but it has lowered its guard in the places staff are supposed to move.
That’s what I’ve been watching all day.
Lidiya doesn’t use the main stairs when she brings trays.
She slips through the service panel near the kitchenette, the one half-hidden behind dark wood.
Later, the maids take the same passage with linen baskets, and nobody pays much attention to folded sheets.
In the front corridors, guards look at your face.
In the service passage, they look at what you’re carrying and whether you seem busy enough to belong there.
People with chores become furniture. I can use that.
Sergei is the problem and the opening. He gives me more space than the others, partly because he has manners and partly because Dmitri made it clear that crowding me comes with consequences. Sergei won’t leave his post for long, but he also won’t grab my arm unless I give him a reason.
So I don’t give him one.
I wait until the next cart moves below me.
Then I take the towel bundle and walk to the door.
The dinner tray is still on the small table.
Mrs. Wentworth sent tea after I came back, and I never touched it.
A small table knife sits beside the cup, useless against anyone in this house. I take it anyway.
I slide the knife inside the towel bundle.
My hair goes under a scarf from the wardrobe.
In the bedroom mirror, I still look like Cara O’Connell pretending badly, so I stop checking.
At the door, I listen. The corridor gives me nothing.
Farther down, the house stays hushed. I open the door slowly and step out with the towel held against my chest.
Sergei stands at his post near the turn. His head comes up. I don’t hurry. Hurrying gets noticed. I keep my shoulders rounded, my eyes down, and my hands full.
“Bathroom towels,” I say before he asks.
His gaze moves over the bundle, back to my face, then to the scarf. For one second, I think he knows. Below us, a service door shuts hard, and Sergei turns his head. I keep walking.
Near the kitchenette, the service panel is inside the dark wood.
I know where to press because I watched Lidiya do it with trays all day.
My thumb finds the latch. The panel opens inward.
Warmth rolls out with the smells of soap, onions, and old pipes.
I step through and pull the panel shut behind me.
The service passage is narrow, with shelves on both sides. Buckets sit under pipes. Folded cloths fill open bins. Spare bulbs, bottled water, linen bags, and cleaning bottles take up every bit of space the main house hides from guests.
I stop and listen to see if anyone noticed me. Nothing changes. A cart waits near the linen shelves with towels stacked on top and a gray apron folded over the handle.
That’s what I need.
My hands are clumsy when I reach for it.
Any second, someone could turn the corner and ask why I’m touching staff clothes.
Sergei could open the panel behind me. I tie the apron over my sweater before anyone comes, but the knot comes out crooked, so I fix it.
A gray service cardigan hangs from a hook beside the shelves.
I pull it on and tuck my scarf lower. I still don’t look like staff, but I look less like myself.
A maid steps out from a side alcove with napkins stacked to her chin. My chest tightens once. I lift the towels and mumble the closest thing I have to Russian, which is mostly confidence and one ruined word Sergei corrected earlier.
Her eyes move over the apron, the cardigan, and the towels in my arms. For one terrible second, she keeps looking. Then her face goes bored. She points down the passage and says something in Russian. I nod like I understood.
“Thanks,” I say.
English slips out before I can stop it. Her eyes return to my face. My hand tightens around the towels. Then she gives a tired little shrug and keeps walking.
I move before she can change her mind.
A linen cart waits beside the shelves, half-loaded for morning.
I put my towels on top, bury the knife under the stack, and take the handle.
The cart wheels cover most of the sound from my boots.
Before I left the suite, I pulled thick socks over them, and now the socks slide with every step.
I nearly trip twice, but it’s better than letting my boots click down the passage.
The back stairs go down two floors. They’re plain and narrow, with worn steps and a metal rail that feels cold through my sleeve. Below, two men talk near a service door. One laughs under his breath. Another cart squeaks somewhere farther down.
Night shift. People are getting the estate ready for morning. Linens, food prep, firewood, delivery checks, trash, and guards. I can pass if I look busy enough.
At the bottom, I turn left toward the smells of potatoes, soap, and wet stone. Three narrow passages have signs over them, but every sign is in Russian. I stare at the signs and curse myself for not learning the language before sneaking through a house full of Russians.
A kitchen man comes through one passage carrying empty boxes, and cold air follows him inside.
Exit.
I keep both hands on the cart and head for the passage he came from. He barely looks at me before moving aside.
The supply door has a small window clouded at the edges. Through it, I see the delivery yard behind the house, away from the front drive and the main entrance.
Snow crusts around refuse bins. Crates sit beside the wall. A produce truck idles near the supply lane while two kitchen men load empty boxes into the back. Past the truck, trees line the service road. Beyond the trees, gate lights shine in the dark.
For the first time all night, I can see a way out. If I get past the gate, I can reach the road. If I reach the road, I can find a shop, a house, anything with a phone. After that, I can call Kathryn, the embassy, anyone who can make noise before Dmitri finds me again.
I leave the cart beside the supply shelves, take the towel stack with the knife hidden inside, and push through the door. Cold hits my face, and I almost stop walking.
No one calls my name. A driver stands near the yard office with a cigarette cupped in one hand, his back half-turned against the cold.
One kitchen man is inside the truck bed, turned away as he drags empty boxes toward the cab.
Another bends near a stack of crates by the wall, cursing under his breath.
I keep the towels high against my chest and walk toward the truck like I’ve been sent there. Nobody looks twice.