Chapter 17
Nick
THE TWO-HOUR RIDE PASSED in a blur. Nadya clung to my back the whole way, arms locked under my jacket and face pressed to the space between my shoulder blades.
It made me feel absurdly alive, even if my hands were numb and my ass had fallen asleep halfway there.
She smelled like vanilla, and I hated that the usual scent of paint was gone now since she wasn’t working on her art while she was with me.
Maybe I should help set her up with something.
It was her healthier coping mechanism, after all.
By the time we reached Melissa’s apartment building, it was noon. It sat between a car wash and a “health spa” that advertised an hour in a jacuzzi with two girls.
We parked in the lot, and I killed the engine.
Nadya didn’t let go right away; she stayed pressed against my back a full three seconds after I took off my helmet.
When she finally did let go, it was abrupt, and she almost toppled off the seat.
I caught her by the thigh that was still close enough to mine, steadying her.
My hand lingered, and for a second, I let myself imagine what it would be like if we were just a normal couple on a weekend trip.
But we weren’t.
I helped her off the bike, and she shook out her arms, then looked up at the building and grimaced. “Do you think she’ll even talk to us?” she asked.
“Not if we scare her off,” I said. “Let’s try to look nonthreatening.”
Nadya snorted. “You’re a six-foot-three ex-SEAL with a black eye. I’m a woman with red paint stains on her clothes and a bad attitude. We look like the opening credits of a true crime documentary.”
“Could’ve been worse,” I said. “I get nightmares, too. Imagine how it would’ve looked if I were the one to elbow you in the eye?”
She snorted a laugh. “Good point. She definitely would’ve refused talking to you then.”
We went into the building to find a stairwell stinking of old mop water, weed, and whatever chemical they use to mask the scent of weed.
As we climbed to the second floor, our boots echoing on the stairs, Nadya hugged herself and walked half a step behind me, chin tucked, eyes flicking this way and that, as if expecting something to jump out at her.
Melissa’s apartment was at the end of the hall. I knocked twice—firm but not aggressive—and waited.
No one answered. Just as I was about to knock again, the door cracked open two inches, chain still in place.
Melissa’s face appeared in the gap; pale, hollowed out, with hair so greasy it looked wet. She looked older than her age, and her eyes were hard. Her threadbare t-shirt was partially covered by a flannel shirt. She pinned Nadya and me with a look that could have stripped paint from the wall.
“Who are you?” she said, voice flat.
I held out my badge and ID. “Nick Santana. FBI. This is Nadya. We just want to ask you a few questions.”
Melissa’s lip curled. “I don’t talk to pigs.”
“That’s fine,” I said. “But you might want to hear what we have to say. We’re looking into your dad. And what he did in that house.”
At the word “dad,” her face went completely still. She glanced at Nadya again, and her eyes narrowed.
Nadya stepped forward, voice shaky but clear. “I was brought to your house.”
A flicker of something passed over Melissa’s face, then she said, “You brought a survivor to interrogate me? What the fuck is wrong with you?”
I answered her honestly. “She’s not here to interrogate you. She’s here because she deserves justice. Same as you.”
Melissa stared at me for a long time, then slid the chain and opened the door. “Five minutes,” she said, backing into the apartment.
We followed her inside. The place was tiny, the walls painted nicotine yellow.
There was a futon with a sheet thrown over it, a low coffee table buried under Chinese takeout cartons, and an ancient tube TV playing a muted morning show.
Melissa perched on the edge of the futon, elbows on knees, hands knotted together so tight her knuckles blanched white.
Nadya and I took the folding chairs by the window. While I tried to look relaxed and unintimidating, Nadya sat rigid, picking at the skin around her thumb.
Melissa didn’t wait for me to start. “You want to know about the playdates, right?” Her voice was dead, but her eyes were sharp. “You want me to say it out loud, just like every other asshole who tried to get me to talk about it.”
I kept my voice calm. “We want to understand how it worked. Not to re-traumatize you.”
She barked a laugh. “There’s no way to talk about it that doesn’t.”
Nadya spoke next, and I could see how much it cost her. “The man that used to bring me? He tried to kidnap my sister recently. I just want to know why because he was never big on grown-ups.”
Melissa let out a slow, trembling breath. “The men who came—they were all customers. Some of them paid cash, some of them traded favors. Sometimes, it was just to watch, sometimes it was more.”
“Was it always kids?” I asked.
Melissa’s hands twisted harder. “No. Sometimes women, too. Women who came with kids. They called them ‘babysitters,’ but they were just older victims.”
I wrote that down, then tucked the notepad back in my pocket. “Did you know any of the women?”
She shook her head. “They never let me talk to anyone unless it was part of a show. Dad kept me upstairs the rest of the time. Said I was his ‘angel, so I shouldn’t have to do it unless it was necessary.’” Her lips curled at the memory.
Nadya’s voice was barely above a whisper. “Do you remember me? Or the others?”
Melissa looked at her then, really looked, and for a second I thought she might break. Instead, she nodded. “Yeah. Wish I didn’t, but sometimes the other girls are all I can remember.”
“Yeah,” Nadya said, and I felt her shoulders tense next to me.
“They liked to have a couple of girls there, especially if they had a lot of customers.” Melissa said before going quiet for a few long seconds; her silence was broken only by the hum of the fridge and the muffled TV.
“It was good advertising, too. Like, ‘look at all the different kids we can get our hands on. Want us to get you one?’”
Was she saying what I thought she was saying? “You mean, human trafficking?”
She nodded. “He had connections in a few countries. They let him or his customers adopt kids without the extra paperwork. In most places, you had to go through the courts and all that stuff before they let you take a kid, but he found ways around it.”
Nadya’s hands twisted tight. “Yeah, I don’t think my sisters and I went through the court system for our adoption.”
“And your dad?” I asked. “Where is he now?”
She laughed, bitter. “Probably sunning his balls in Florida. Last I heard, he sold his house, got a fake name, and vanished.”
I looked at Nadya, who was watching Melissa with a kind of desperate hunger, like she needed this to mean something.
“Is there anyone else involved you can tell us about? Even if you don’t know last names, any information could help,” I asked, trying to keep her talking.
Melissa looked at the floor, picking at a spot on her jeans.
“There was a man. He liked to hurt people. Even Dad was scared of him. Kids never lasted with him, so he had to get someone new every couple of years. Everyone called him Z. I think I heard my father refer to him as Zeke one time, but I can’t be sure. He had a tattoo on his face. Tears.”
A common tattoo, and it was never good news. It did make me wonder, though. “Did the number of tears increase over time? Especially after...” Fuck. I hated even thinking it, never mind voicing it. “After he’d decide to get a new kid.”
Nadya’s eyes flashed to mine, and I could see her pulse in the hollow of her throat. I reached over and squeezed her hand, careful not to make a big show of it.
“I think he did add more drops over time. I can’t remember for sure when.” Melissa swallowed hard. “He had six tears when my grandparents got me out of there.”
Nadya looked like she was going to puke. I could definitely relate to that. The only thing keeping me levelheaded was the knowledge that if I did my job well, I’d lock that fucker away.
Melissa went on, her words tumbling out faster now. “A year ago, I got a letter. From another victim, Ekaterina, She said she remembered me. Said she was ready to talk. I didn’t call her right away, but when I finally did, the number was disconnected.”
I pulled out my phone and started searching the name. “Do you remember her last name?”
Melissa nodded, a tight jerk of her head. “Orlova. Ekaterina Orlova.”
I typed it in, and sure enough, the NY office had her file. Case agent: Renat Volkov. I could have kissed the universe for that one.
I put my phone away and looked at Melissa. “If we find your dad, would you be willing to testify?”
She laughed again, but there was no joy in it. “I’d pay to watch someone put a bullet in his head. Testify? Sure. But I don’t want him to know where I am. Ever.”
“Understood.” I took a business card from my wallet and set it on the table. “If you think of anything else, or if anyone contacts you, call me. Day or night.”
Melissa looked at the card like it was a live wire, then picked it up and tucked it into her shirt pocket and stood, making it clear our conversation was over.
“You should go,” she said. “People around here get suspicious when strangers hang around too long.”
I got up, and Nadya did, too, a little less steady than when we came in. I thanked Melissa, and we left.
Back in the hall, Nadya stopped halfway down the stairs. She leaned against the wall, breathing hard. I hovered, not sure if she wanted space or support.
“Hey,” I said, keeping my voice low. “You okay?”
She nodded but didn’t look at me. “Yeah. I just... I remember the guy with the tears.”
I waited. Sometimes, silence was the only help worth offering. Finally, she turned, her face blotchy and wet-eyed, but her jaw set with that same stubbornness I’d come to admire.
“I don’t know how you do this,” she said.
I shrugged. “By thinking about all the kids who might still become victims. I might not be able to turn the clock and save the previous victims, but I can save future ones.”
She let out a shaky laugh. “Is that in the FBI training manual?”
“No,” I said. “That’s just me.”
Nadya took deep breath after deep breath, trying to calm herself, but none of it worked. I wrapped my arms around her, needing to comfort her as much as she needed it.
“Want to stop by an art store?” I asked.
“I’ll make a mess at the hotel,” she answered.
“I can probably find studio space if you need to let it out.” The urge to kiss the top of her head was strong, but I pushed it back. Hugging was bad enough. I didn’t need to overstep even more boundaries.
“That would actually be nice,” Nadya admitted.
“Perfect. Then you paint while I get in touch with Renat. He’s working on Orlova’s case, so we need to compare notes and see where we’ll go from here.”
We could probably head back to New York soon, too. A shame. I was beginning to like having Nadya with me all day long, elbow to the eye and all.