Chapter 9
Nick
THE HOTEL HAD ALL THE personality of a saltine cracker. Not even the good kind with a slight nutty flavor my mom liked— just basic bland and dry enough to gum up your mouth. My boss wasn’t big on spending taxpayer money, so he always booked me the cheapest hotel he could find.
I didn’t even bother unpacking my duffel, even though I’d probably be here for at least a couple of weeks.
There was no telling what kind of alien life forms lived in the dresser, so I wasn’t going there.
Everything else was on the table in the corner of the room: a laptop, a legal pad, and the case file on George. That one stayed open.
After reading his file again, this time knowing exactly who his victims were, seeing their faces, their fears, I couldn’t bring myself to close it.
Vera, Nadezhda, and Ljubov Almaznayas.
The reports from their medical examinations over the years lay on top, haunting me even now while I was sitting on the bed five feet away.
He had gotten Vera pregnant, and then his wife, in a fit of rage, had beaten Vera, causing her to lose the baby.
Nadezhda—aka Nadya, my Nadya—had old scars from tearing.
Ljubov—or Ljuba, as her sisters called her—had tearing as well, although hers wasn’t as severe because she’d only had one monster to deal with.
At least all the STI tests came back negative, even if they had to get tested for years afterward, in case HIV didn't show up right away.
Girls like them were the reason I was doing this. And girls like my sister.
I sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on knees, phone in hand, letting the blue light sear afterimages into my retinas.
I watched the numbers in the corner of the screen, and a familiar ache started low in my chest and worked its way up until it felt like someone was twisting a knife between my ribs. September fifth.
Happy birthday, Isabella.
She would be twenty-six now.
I could imagine the way she’d look now: black hair grown long like our mother’s, maybe a tattoo behind one ear, something small and hidden. Maybe she would’ve moved out of Pittsburgh entirely, or maybe she’d be in school, collecting fancy degrees and making our parents proud.
It had been too long to still hope, but that didn’t stop me from going through the motions.
I squared my shoulders and thumbed the detective’s number. The line connected after two rings.
“Hey, Nick,” came the voice, tired but not unkind. I could practically smell the burnt coffee on the other end. “Didn’t expect you to call so early.”
“Just making sure you’re awake, Ken.” My voice sounded like it belonged to someone else. “You got anything for me?”
A breath hissed out, barely a pause. “Nothing changed, man. We ran the DNA kit again after that hit in Allegheny, but it was a dead end. The guy’s locked up, no contact with your sister’s case.”
I nodded, even though he couldn’t see me. “Thanks for running it.”
Ken’s voice softened, which made me want to hang up. “I’ll keep the file open. You know I will. How you holding up?”
“Same as always,” I said. “Still working the human trafficking cases. Maybe something shakes loose.”
“Yeah. Maybe.” He let the line go quiet. “You know, your folks called me earlier. Your mom, specifically.”
Of course she did. “That’s her way.”
“She’s a good woman.”
Too bad tragedies happened to good people and their children.
“Tell your wife thanks for the cookies,” I said, knowing she’d backed a batch for my parents as she always did. Then I wished the old police detective a good day and hung up.
The next number I dialed was my parents’, and I waited for my mother’s voice to pick up.
“Nicky?”
“Hi, Ma,” I said, forcing my voice to soften around the edges. “Sorry for calling so early. Ken said you already called him, so I figured you were either awake or sleep-talking.”
“It’s okay, honey. We were just watching TV. Dad’s here, too. Say hi, Charlie.”
In the background, I heard a grunt and the rattle of a glass on a table, then my father’s voice saying, “Hi, Charlie,” just to be a smartass.
I could picture them on the worn brown sofa in our old living room, my dad hunched over a crossword, my mother in her fuzzy slippers and robe. I hadn’t seen them in person since Christmas, but the image never changed.
“What did Ken say?” she asked.
“He says they’re still looking, Ma.”
Silence. Just the echo of her breath, the shudder of her wanting to believe something might have changed, that this year would be different. “Yeah, I guess they are.”
The old pain crackled in her voice. Not sharp anymore, but like a joint worn down by time.
I remembered the way she looked when Isabella had vanished: wild-eyed, brittle.
Now, she’d shrunk inside herself. She never asked for details about my cases, and I never offered them.
She knew I got this job because a part of me hoped I’d find my sister, but all I had found were more dead ends.
“Did you eat?” she asked, because this was how we pivoted.
“Yeah. I had pasta. Not as good as yours, but close.”
She tutted. “You should find a nice girl out there. Have her cook for you.” Her tone brightened, pushing the tragedy back into its box. “You ever talk to that girl from your building, the nurse?”
I grinned. “No, Ma. I think she’s got a boyfriend now.”
“Good. He must be a nice boy,” she said, and I heard Dad snort in the background, probably at the word “boy.”
“You should look for someone new,” she said. “Life is too short to eat bad pasta alone.”
I let her fill the silence with a parade of neighbors’ birthdays and church fundraisers and the new dog she saw at the shelter.
My dad chimed in once, to ask if I still had all my fingers.
Somehow, he thought every shootout ended with severed digits, even though he should’ve known better.
It was my knee that had gotten me an honorable discharge, after all.
It went like that for a while, until Mom ran out of news. I knew what came next; it was always the same question.
“Nicky, you ever think about moving back here?” she asked, so quiet it almost slipped past me.
I squeezed the phone hard enough my knuckles blanched. “Not yet, Ma. There’s still work to do.”
“You can work anywhere,” she said, but it was habit, not argument.
“Not this work,” I said.
She let it go. “Okay, honey. Promise to call next week?”
“Promise.”
We said goodnight, and I waited until the call dropped before I let the phone fall to the bed. I sat there, hunched forward, rubbing the spot on my chest where the ache had finally settled.
It was always like this. The week after Isabella’s birthday was a fog. I used to drink through it or run until I collapsed. Now, I just worked. Picked up extra cases. Tracked every runaway, every foster kid, every Jane Doe until my eyes burned and my brain shut down.
I scanned the table. George’s file was still open, but I couldn’t look at the photos anymore. I flipped to the page with his prison contacts, reading the names in my head, willing one of them to jump out at me and confess.
Instead, my thoughts drifted to Nadya— cloaked in humor, hair like a bad breakup with a paint store, hands always in motion.
I’d known right away she was the girl from the bar; the girl who’d made me laugh and made me want to hunt down the monsters who had hurt her.
The moment I’d stepped into that hospital room, before I’d even heard her voice, I knew it was her.
She was sharper than she let on. Defensive, sure, but only because she’d spent too long having to fight her way clear of people like George. I recognized the same operating system; it was easier to break something yourself than risk having it stolen.
Every time she smiled, even if it was just to mock me, something happened in my chest.
I closed my eyes and let the feeling crest, then forced myself to shut it down. I had enough distractions already.
The phone vibrated on the bed. A text from Dan: “We got all the footage we could from the Mayday’s security system.”
Maydays were the friends Ljuba had been staying with because of her nightmares. If George or anyone else was following Ljuba, we might get a hit on one of the cameras.
I replied: “Thanks. Tell Ljuba I said hi.”
Then I shut off the phone and let myself lie back on the lumpy mattress, staring at the ceiling. The light fixture above me buzzed with an angry insect trapped inside the dome, and the whole room smelled faintly of bleach and loneliness.
I could call Nadya. Hopefully, she’d pick up, maybe tease me about being an early bird. I almost did it. Thumb hovered over her number, index finger poised to hit call.
But I didn’t. It was too soon, and I didn’t trust myself not to fuck it up.