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“What happened?”
“I got syrup on my arm.” Holding up my hand, I see that I’ve poured the sticky stuff all over my wrist as well. The sight of Arsen’s prayer beads covered in the mess makes my chest seize up. Quickly, I slip them off—the beads cling to me from the syrup. “I need to wash these right away.”
My mother plucks them from my grip. “Let me do it.” She pauses, studying the prayer beads closer. “These are made of wood. They need a careful and gentle touch to not permanently damage them.” She zeroes in on my frown and gives me a reassuring smile. “Spokoino, malyshka. Sit and eat.”
Unsure if I should, I hover over my chair. But watching how she sets Arsen’s beads onto a dish towel by the sink before expertly flipping more pancakes before they burn, I know the bracelet is in good hands. Sitting again, I slice a three-layer chunk with my fork. I don’t need a knife for these tender morsels. I’m swallowing the mouthful when the doorbell rings.
My mother cranes her neck to look in that direction. “Is Audrey visiting us?”
I shake my head. “I don’t think so, but she’s not the best at keeping to a schedule.” Normally she arrives with supplies every three days. Sometimes she pops in just to hang out though, which I appreciate. Witness protection is a lonely business.
Pushing my chair back, I walk to the front door. “I’ll get it. Don’t want you to overcook the pancakes.” She clicks her tongue disapprovingly in the background at my teasing. Yanking the knob, I see who’s outside. He’s a tall man; that’s what I notice first. He’s lean like a swimmer, from what his clothing indicates. The short leather jacket he wears reminds me of Mila’s, though it’s thicker around the collar, the material stiffer. His shoes are expensive and clean, polished with care.
The gray cap on his head hides most of his hair, though the strands peeking out by his temples are black like coal. I don’t recognize him. He smiles kindly, the motion making his blue eyes flash as they crawl over me.
“Good morning.”
“Hello,” I say cautiously. I peer around him, searching for other people. Instead, I see a car parked on the curb. It’s the same shade as cement, the model something expensive I don’t know by name. The windows are tinted so I can’t tell who, if anyone, is inside.
“Can I help you?”
His head cants to one side so slightly it’s as if he barely moves. “I believe you can.”
“Galina?” Mom calls, coming up behind me. “Who is it?” I turn to respond, but then I freeze.
My mother’s face drains of all color.
“You …” she whispers.
Confused, I squint warily at the man who’s standing on the doorstep. With a grand smile that goes from ear to ear, he bows his head to us.
“Privyet, Katyusha.” His eyes slide to me, and I feel like someone has doused me in ice. “And my lovely Galina. It’s lovely to finally speak face to face.”
I don’t say anything back to him.
“A shame,” he sighs sadly, “that you don’t recognize your own father.”
I taste the bile rising from my stomach.
“No, no, no,” my mother whispers beside me.
Removing his hat, the man dips his head. It feels like he’s mocking us instead of showing respect. “Well? Aren’t you going to let me in?”
I move to slam the door shut—he catches the edge, muscling it open no matter how much effort I use to try and block him. “Mom!” I yell. “Call 911!”
“That won’t be necessary,” he grunts, pushing the door all the way open. I stumble backward, bumping into the couch. Yevgeniy dusts himself off before locking his eyes on me. There’s no urgency in his movements. This is a man who lacks doubt … a man who is sure he’s already won.
Mom is clenching her hands at her chest. She’s bent at the waist like she’s trying to make herself smaller so she can vanish into the wall. I hear her whispering something under her breath; I think she’s praying.
Ignoring her, I bolt into the kitchen. Whipping my head from side to side, I snatch up the fork I was eating with. I have to protect us! On instinct, I cover my belly with my free hand. ALL of us.
“Stoi, devushka!” Yevgeniy says. He swaggers into the kitchen, looking around with vague interest. Seeing him here, among the remains of the wonderful pancake breakfast I was having minutes ago, is surreal. “We should be celebrating our reunion, not fighting.”
“Fuck you!” I shout, lunging at him with the fork. His fingers wrap around my wrist, throwing me with my own momentum. I let out a scream before landing hard on the floor on my shoulder. The fork bounces across the ground until it ends up near the fridge.
Kneeling beside me, Yevgeniy cups my chin. “You have my fire in you.”
Curling my lip in a snarl, I whip my arm out, slapping him with such impact that my palm stings. “Get away from me!”
