37. Ruslan
Ruslan
The drive west feels longer than the map said it should. California disappears behind me, replaced by endless stretches of highway that cut through rust-colored mesas and lonely gas stations with faded signs.
I barely notice the scenery. Every mile brings me closer to a conversation I’ve delayed for more than a decade.
One that has lived in the back of my mind ever since I carried a six-year-old girl out of foster care and promised myself I would someday find the woman who was forced out of her life—the same way I was forced from mine.
Utah greets me with overcast skies and dry air that smells faintly of rain.
By late afternoon, I’ve followed enough dead ends and old contacts to arrive outside a weathered roadside motel on the edge of a small town.
It isn’t the sort of place tourists choose.
The paint is peeling in places; a neon vacancy sign buzzes lazily near the office, and several pickup trucks sit scattered around the cracked parking lot.
Still...
It’s cleaner than the last place I’d tracked Shannon to.
Cleaner than the trailer park where she’d vanished years ago.
For reasons I don’t entirely understand, relief settles quietly in my chest. At least she’s surviving.
I park beneath a dying cottonwood tree and walk toward room seventeen.
Though I insisted on coming alone, partly to keep from drawing attention to my search and partly to make sure Shannon doesn’t get scared off, a small team of men back in Santa Barbara are running point for me.
With each stop I make, I feed information back, and in return, I’m brought one step closer.
Stepan’s intelligence when we talked half an hour ago had been accurate. Shannon has lived here for nearly eight months, paying week by week and keeping mostly to herself. She works occasional shifts at a nearby diner, never long enough for anyone to know much about her before moving on again.
She’s still running. Just more slowly. Which means she might try and run from me.
I stop outside the faded blue door, and for a moment, I simply stand there. I’ve rehearsed this meeting in my head countless times.
In some versions, she’s furious.
In others, she slams the door in my face.
Once or twice, I’d imagined she’d already be dead, and I’d be the one to find her face-down on a flat motel bed.
Banishing the nightmares, I raise my hand and knock. Footsteps sound in the room beyond, not hurrying. A deadbolt clicks, and the door opens a few inches.
Shannon peers through the gap first, her expression guarded until she recognizes me. Then that look of distrust and disbelief only deepens.
She’s older than I remember.
Fine lines frame her eyes now, and strands of silver have begun threading through dirty-blonde hair that was once almost identical to Kate’s. She’s thinner than she should be, though healthier than the frightened young woman I met years ago.
“Ruslan?”
She says my name with such incredulity it’s as if she expected me to be dead. Maybe she did. I can only imagine what Andrei warned her about me back when they were together, and even when I found her after Kate disappeared, I’m sure Shannon had sensed the kind of man I’d become.
Shocking that a Bratva Pakhan could live well into his forties.
“Hello, Shannon.”
She doesn’t move. “I...” Her eyes dart nervously across the parking lot, clocking each car, including mine, before returning to me. “What are you doing here?”
“I need to come in.”
Fear flickers across her face.
“No.”
“It’s important.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“It probably isn’t. But you’ll want to hear what I have to say.” I meet her eyes steadily. “It’s necessary.”
For several seconds she simply stares at me, weighing whether she can close the door before I react.
She knows she can’t.
Not because I’d force my way inside, but because she can sense the patience I have. The willingness to take something all the way to the conclusion.
Eventually, with visible reluctance, she takes down the chain and opens the door another foot.
The motel room is small but tidy. A little kitchenette occupies one wall, a worn sofa sits beneath the window, and a stack of library books rests beside an armchair.
Someone has tried to make the space feel like home with inexpensive curtains and a potted plant struggling to survive on the windowsill.
It isn’t much, but it’s enough for relief to wash through me quickly. A part of me has been scared for Kate—scared at the kind of woman I’d find here.
I step inside and close the door behind me.
Shannon remains standing near the entrance as though she’s afraid to venture farther into her own space.
“You found me.”
“I’ve always known how to. I just didn’t look that hard before.” I feel the truth in it even as I say the words.
Confusion crosses her face.
“Then, why now?”
Because Andrei finally pushed too far. Emma is carrying my child. Kate deserves the truth before the rest of the world learns it.
I study the woman who spent years trying to keep safe a daughter she was never allowed to keep. It isn’t hard to conjure the memory of the agony on her face when I told her what I planned to do: find Kate and take her in as my own.
I draw a slow breath.
“It’s time.”
The words settle heavily between us. Shannon’s shoulders sag as though she’d been expecting them all along. Her eyes close briefly.
When they open again, they’re shining with tears.
“He found out, didn’t he? He knows where I am and that you—”
“No.”
Shannon goes still, brows knit. Unshed tears glisten along her lashes.
“Kate did.”
Silence fills the little motel room. Then Shannon presses trembling fingers against her mouth, and I watch years of hope and heartbreak collide in a single moment.
She doesn’t speak for several long seconds.
Instead, she lowers herself slowly onto the worn sofa as though her legs have given out, her eyes fixed somewhere beyond the motel room wall.
I stay standing, giving her the space to process what I’ve just told her, though every instinct urges me to keep talking until she understands exactly what’s at stake.
“Kate knows,” she whispers.
“She knows she has parents. And she knows what her father did.”
Shannon nods once, tears slipping silently down her cheeks.
“And...she hates us.”
“No.” The answer comes immediately. I step forward, feeling something in me fracture. What if Shannon decides, thanks to my reassurances, that she wants Kate back? What if empathy becomes a weapon against me? “She doesn’t.”
Her laugh is brittle. “She should.”
“She remembers foster care.”
That gets her attention. Shannon’s eyes snap to mine.
“She remembers enough of it. And she doesn’t blame you, Shannon.”
The color drains from her face.
“Oh, God.”
“She remembers moving from house to house. She remembers being hungry. Sleeping on couches.” My jaw tightens despite myself. “She also remembers waiting for someone to come.”
Shannon buries her face in her hands.
“I looked.”
“I know.”
“I never stopped, but he would have…”
“I know.”
Her shoulders jerk once before she drags in a shaky breath. “I wasn’t strong enough.”
“No.” I crouch in front of her. “You weren’t.”
She looks at me through reddened eyes, whispering: “And he knew it. He knew exactly how frightened I was.”
I hold her gaze. “Then stop letting him win.”
“You don’t understand—” Shannon rushes out, half-rising, but I hold a hand firmly to her shoulder. Now is not the time for empathy; for weakness. I need to make her see.
“I understand perfectly.”
“No, Ruslan. He told me that if I ever opened my mouth...” Her fingers curl together so tightly the knuckles turn white. “...he’d make sure no one ever found me.”
“That won’t happen, Shannon.”
“You can’t promise that. He kicked you out, Ruslan.”
I shake my head, feeling the burn of rage and triumph, and all of it coming to a head expand in my chest.
“I went back. And now we’re both in better places—now is the right time, Shannon. We can’t keep letting him do this.”
She gives me a weary smile. “You’re still that stubborn florist’s son.”
“And you’re still underestimating me.”
Her smile drops as I stand, and it’s as if she’s seen a curtain drop away. She stares up at me with Kate’s almond-shaped eyes, her thin lips pressed together.
“I need you to come to Colorado,” I say, keeping my tone neutral. Not demanding, but not pleading.
She’s immediately shaking her head.
“Shannon.”
“No.”
“He needs to answer for what he did.”
“No.”
“He destroyed your life. He stole your daughter.”
“No, Ruslan—“
I feel my patience fraying. “He’s hurting women now. Were you one of them? I imagine you must have been.”
She squeezes her eyes shut, her hands clenching tight as if she wants to press them over her ears.
“He’s married now. And he’s hurting his wife.”
Her lips move, but I don’t crouch down, can’t hear her.
“He’ll keep doing it.”
“I know,” she barks, her voice breaking on the words. “But I’m scared.”
The confession echoes through the room.
I close the distance between us again. “So am I.”
She stares up at me. “You have power, Ruslan. I don’t have that. I have...” A limp hand gestures around the room.
“I built that power.”
She looks away.
“I don’t have anything to offer you.”
“You have the truth.”
“It isn’t enough.”
“It has to be. It will be.”
I reach into my jacket and remove an envelope. It lands on the coffee table with a hefty sound.
“That’s half a million dollars.”
Her head lifts, brows furrowed once more.
“What?”
“If money is what you need to disappear afterward—”
“It isn’t.”
“Take it anyway.”
Shannon doesn’t even glance at the envelope. I’m taken aback by the anger I see lining her face, and when she stands, I realize for the first time that she’s almost as tall as me. Worn, tired, but easily as angry as I am.
“I don’t want your money.”
“You’ll need somewhere safe afterwards.”
“No.”
“Shannon—”
“I said no.” Her lips press together stubbornly. “I’m not selling my testimony.”
The answer surprises me enough that I stop arguing. She draws a slow breath.
“If I ever stand in front of him again...” Her voice steadies. “...it won’t be because someone paid me.”
Despite everything, I feel the corners of my mouth lift.
“Fair enough.”
The tension eases slightly. I glance toward the faded photograph sitting on the kitchenette counter. Kate would have been seven when it was taken. I remember sending it to the PO Box, back when I’d just learned that Shannon was no longer at the trailer park.
“You’d be proud of her.”
Shannon’s face crumples, fingers going to her mouth again. Her lips part, but she doesn’t say anything, so I continue: “She’ll be thirteen soon. She’s a social butterfly. And smart; too smart for her own good.”
A watery smile appears.
“Stubborn.”
Tears shake at the edges of Shannon’s eyes.
“She loves reality TV, even though I’m trying to get her away from it. She has so many friends.” I find myself smiling more genuinely now. “She wants to play tennis, but between you and me, I don’t think she’s coordinated enough for it.”
A laugh escapes my niece’s mother.
“That sounds like me. And...does she...” She hesitates. “Does she have someone?”
I frown. “What do you mean?”
“A woman. Do you have a—is there a woman who’s like a mother—” Her voice grows smaller, and she’s unable to finish the question, but I grasp where it was going.
The guilt laps at me like waves on the shore. So I fumble the answer, caught off guard, murmuring, “Emma.”
“Emma?”
“Emma is…” I trail off, unsure how to explain as something painful flashes across Shannon’s face. “Emma is in my life; she…”
I want to say: I think she’ll stay. I hope she’ll stay. I want to raise our child with her by my side; I want Kate to have someone to chatter to as she gets older.
“Not like that,” I finish lamely, obviously unprepared for this line of questioning.
Shannon looks up.
“Emma isn’t trying to replace you,” I try again, more firmly this time. “She’s someone I’m seeing. But she is not a mother-figure to Kate, and isn’t trying to be.”
“She isn’t?”
“No. She’s her friend. Kate likes her.”
“And you?”
I hesitate. “Emma is...” I exhale softly. “Complicated.”
A knowing smile tugs at Shannon’s lips.
“I see.”
I ignore that. “Kate knows exactly who her mother is.” I meet Shannon’s eyes, watching as fresh tears skip down her cheeks.
“Thank you for finding her. And for keeping her safe.”
She reaches across the space between us and squeezes my hand. Emotion lodges unexpectedly in my throat.
I don’t know what to say to that.
After a long silence, Shannon straightens up.
“When do we leave?”
“You’re coming?”
She nods slowly. “I’m done hiding.” Her gaze hardens with a strength I haven’t seen before. “If Kate knows the truth...”
She looks toward the motel window, where the evening sky has begun to darken.
“...then it’s time the rest of the world hears it too.”
She leans down, picks up the envelope, and tosses it back to me.
“I won’t need that.”
A determined smile settles onto her face.
“I’m doing this for my daughter.”
* * *
By the time we reach the private airfield, the clock on the terminal wall reads 10:47 p.m. The runway is washed in pools of white light, the little twin-engine aircraft waiting with its propellers already turning.
The air carries the sharp bite of sage long dried out, and Shannon pulls her borrowed jacket tighter as we cross the tarmac.
Neither of us says much.
The cabin is cramped, with only two passenger seats behind the pilot. Shannon buckles herself in immediately, gripping the armrests so tightly her knuckles turn white. As the engine’s roar louder and the plane begins to taxi, she bows her head, whispering prayers under her breath.
“I’ve never liked flying,” she admits over the roar of the engine, managing a strained smile. “I always think, if I can still touch the ground, I should.”
“We’ll be in Colorado before you know it.”
“I’d rather be anywhere without wings.”
Despite everything, I almost smile. The truth is, I’m not a fan of these twin prop planes either. They make my stomach drop like a stone; my insides go cold.
The plane lifts smoothly into the darkness, city lights shrinking beneath us until they’re little more than scattered constellations across the desert. Shannon squeezes her eyes shut, refusing to look out the window.
I do the opposite, because every mile east feels like one mile closer to Emma.
Closer to the tiny life growing inside her.
Closer to the family I never expected to want, yet now can’t imagine losing.
For the first time since leaving the cabin, Andrei isn’t the thought consuming me.
Emma is.
I wonder if she’s sleeping, if she’s curled beneath the heavy quilts with Frank snoring in the room down the hall, unaware that I’m already on my way back to her.
Back home.