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“Is there anything in the bedroom? Anything anywhere that indicates Galina was here?”
Mila shrugs, flipping her knife from one hand to the next; her adrenaline is pumping and has nowhere to go. I know the feeling. “I saw some clothes. It was messy, like someone left in a hurry.”
Frowning pensively, I walk toward the kitchen. On a small table is a white plate piled with half-eaten silver dollar pancakes. My eyes roam to one side, spotting the cold pan still on the stove, the mixing bowl crusted with batter.
“Arsen,” Mila says. She crouches by the fridge, then holds up a metal fork with crumbs clinging to the tines. Her eyes narrow warily.
I take another step into the kitchen. “What happened—” Glass shatters, interrupting my question. It’s the window above the kitchen sink. It’s shattered by something puncturing the panes.
“Get down!” Mila shouts at me. She rolls into the corner by the fridge. I’m already throwing myself onto the tile floor.
Shit, someone is shooting at us! Mila was right. This was a trap.
I push up on my elbows—more bullets pierce the window, some coming through the walls. Dust and stucco fragments rain down on me. I peek upward, searching for the source of the attack. As I do, I notice something on the edge of the sink directly above me.
“Arsen!” Mila yells over the barrage of gunshots. “Arsen! We need to go now!”
I’m not listening. I can’t. My world is swaying; it’s all I can do to focus enough to remember not to raise my head. All around me is death, but in front of me is a sign of hope. On bent knee, I inch toward the sink. Mila sees what I’m doing. She starts to shout at me; new pops from the guns drown her out.
Stretching my arm just enough, I grab what I’m after. Bullets pepper the window where I am, showering me with shards of glass. Ignoring the threat of having my skin cut to ribbons, I examine my prize.
My prayer beads are sticky.
A distinct scent of sugary maple hangs around them. It masks her scent, but my memories pull it to the surface with precision. I rub my thumb on the beads’ surface to wipe away the smears of dust clinging to the wood, caused by bullet impacts.
Sergei was telling the truth. Galina was here.
But I’m too late.
