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Galina doesn’t move. “Arsen …”
Moving as slowly as possible, like I can stop time itself from marching forward if I don’t let this moment end, I cup my hands around hers. When I open them again, my prayer beads are sitting on her palm.
“You can’t,” she says weakly. “Kristina gave these to you. You swore you wouldn’t remove them until Yevgeniy was dead.”
I made that promise. But along the way, my urge to devote myself to Kristina has morphed into something bigger. I’m no longer chasing pure vengeance for the dead. I’m fighting for the living. I need to prove to Galina that her happiness takes precedence over all other events in my life.
Our eyes lock. “Yes. I did promise that. But things have changed.” My voice is as solid as the diamond on her finger. “But you are what matters to me now.”
Galina’s lips tremble. I don’t wait to see what she’ll do next. If I hesitate here, all my efforts to do the right thing will be in vain. The greedy part of me that wants to make Galina stay at all costs isn’t easy to control.
Turning my back on the woman I love, I walk away without knowing if I’ll ever see her again.
44
GALINA
My nails tug at the prayer beads on my wrist. I debated wearing them—it felt like the antithesis of my drive to escape Arsen to end up with his prayer beads in my possession. But somehow, the sensation of them hugging my wrist brings comfort.
His eyes were full of so much torment when he gave them to me. It was overwhelming; I almost backed out of my plan. But he left so quickly that I didn’t have a chance to change my mind.
Though he assured me he wouldn’t stop me from leaving, I wasn’t about to get sloppy. The next morning when the van arrived, I was watching for it from my window. Ulyana had instructed me to work my way covertly down to the pantry once I spotted it.
With sweat collecting in every crevice of my body, I tiptoed to the pantry. Ulyana wasn’t there, but my mother was.
“Galina,” she gushed, hugging me tight. “Is this really going to work?”
“Yes,” I said, faking my bravado. Helping her into the large wooden box stamped with faded markings from whatever farm was selling bulk potatoes via Arsen’s bank account, I shut the top. There was a barrel meant for pickles beside her. I stuffed myself into it. The aroma of vinegar made me nauseous, and I barely fought back the urge to vomit.
Someone tapped lightly on the lid, sending my nerves to the moon. “Don’t make a sound.” It was Danil’s voice.
After that, every bump or shift of being transported gave me waves of hope. But I didn’t breathe easily until the van stopped and Audrey opened the barrel. Her giant grin sent me into tears.
Now, sitting in the law office of Josh Sanders, her husband, my nerves are back.
“Hey,” Audrey says, reaching over the table to pat my hand. It’s one of the longest tables I’ve ever seen; you could easily seat twelve people along the mirror-polished wood.
“I’m fine,” I assure her with a smile.
Her attention darts to my mother beside me. “Katya? How are you holding up?”
Mom tips her chin up, brushing her long hair from her face. She’s wearing a waist-cinched mauve jacket with faux fur on the trim. It’s got to be sweltering in the warm office, but she’s refused all offers to hang it up. The outfit is one she packed to bring to Arsen’s place. She took her whole suitcase with her when we fled. I left everything behind except my phone and my father’s brooch. The things I really care about are already part of me.
They didn’t require any packing.
My mother nods at Audrey, but her voice is tight. “When is Josh coming?”
“Soon,” Audrey replies quickly. She’s beaming. If you didn’t know her well, you wouldn’t recognize she was anxious. She flicks her eyes at the door, then peers at her phone. When she sees me looking, she puts it away and grins wider.
“He’s probably finishing last-minute stuff. Busy, busy guy.”
Mom scans the office. Her attention lingers on the expensive TV mounted to one wall; the huge windows have a killer view of the city. “I imagine he must be.”
Audrey blushes, picking up the undertone of my mother’s words. She must feel awkward to have her husband’s well-paid job thrown in our faces, knowing how we’ve been struggling for years to keep the studio from shutting down. Of course, we never asked Audrey for money. Mom was too proud, and I guess I was fine pretending things would work out somehow.
The door bursts open. “Sorry I’m late!” Josh crows, his grin sliding into place as comfortably as a well-worn pair of shoes.
Speaking of shoes ...
