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Okay, just go for it! Soothing my nerves, I force my voice to remain strong and clear. I can’t shrink away. I need clarity.
“Mom,” I start, fighting to keep my voice even. “What do you know about Yevgeniy Grachev?”
“Nothing.” Her answer is fast. Too fast.
“Mom,” I sigh, exasperated. “Come on.”
“Why would you think I know anything about him?” she asks, her voice growing harsh.
“Because yesterday, when I brought him up, you had this weird reaction.”
“You’re imagining things.”
“No, I’m not!” I shake my head sharply. “You just refused to answer my question. That’s not a denial!”
“Well, I’m answering it now.” She keeps her attention on the breakfast tray, taking her time as she picks through the fruit. “I don’t know him.”
Tensing up, I grip my mug so hard I’m shocked it doesn’t shatter. “I don’t believe you.”
My mother turns slowly, until we’re eye to eye. Her expression is placid—but I know better. Her disinterest is an act. “The past is the past, Galina.”
I jump off the bed; coffee splashes onto my dress, but I’m oblivious. “So you do know him!”
She lowers her eyes, her hair curtaining her face. “Please, don’t fight with me. This is already hard enough.”
“I don’t want to fight you! I just want to understand.”
“There is nothing to understand,” she grumbles. Her head tilts up, letting me see how annoyed she is with me. “This topic makes me ill. I’m trying to eat.”
“But—”
“I’d like to have my breakfast alone.”
I wait for her to change her mind. Instead, she pointedly drops the apple slice back into the fruit bowl. She then pushes herself away from the tray, hands on her knees, jaw jutting forward. I know this stubborn side of her; there’s no way to get through to her when she gets like this.
“Fine,” I sigh, setting my mug on the tray. “If you don’t want to tell me what you’re hiding, I can’t make you.” I unlock the door. It’s a sharp click, but she doesn’t acknowledge it.
I didn’t want her to know I locked us in for privacy, but when she says nothing, it’s almost worse.
I open the door, moving deliberately slowly to give her a chance to call me back.
She remains silent.
Slumping from her coldness, I let myself out of the room. Leaning on her door from the outside, I take a heavy breath. My eyes wander down until I notice the coffee stain on my clothes. I tug at the reminder of how poorly this whole situation went.
She really doesn’t want to talk about this. I blink. I don’t know what this even is. What did she say? Something about the past is the past?
Rubbing my chin absently, I start down the hallway. I wander aimlessly as my mind races. Mom and the past and Yevgeniy ... What could it all mean? I stop short, stumbling on the thick fibers of the red and gold runner. Suddenly, I notice where I am. With an uneasy push, I nudge my way into the room. The walls are still covered in Arsen’s odd array of photos of me.
Walking over to them, I remember how much this place scared me. Now, though, the photos bring a different emotion. Something that bubbles around the edges with the promise of satisfaction. I’m particularly drawn to one of myself outside the dance studio.
What I need is access to information about the past.
And I know exactly where to find it.
The office in the back of the studio is still packed with boxes upon boxes of paperwork. I dug through many of them while trying to help get the bills sorted. Maybe there’s something stored among the documents that might give me insight into Mom’s connection with Yevgeniy.
Rubbing my temples, I groan under my breath. “Doesn’t matter. Nothing at the studio can help me if I’m stuck here.” Scrunching my nose, I drill my head for a solution. I have to get out of here. But who can I ask? Not Arsen. Definitely not Ulyana.
