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1
GALINA
I wonder how many different ways I can rearrange the potatoes on my plate without actually putting any in my mouth. So far, I’ve created a snowman, a three-legged dog, and a pretty decent interpretation of the Eiffel Tower. They’re still warm, which seems impossible. Because I swear I’ve been sitting here forever.
My mother sits to my left—she hasn’t eaten either, but she’s on her second glass of wine. Yevgeniy watches us from across the table. His appetite is just fine. The food on his plate is half gone, and he stabs a chunk of steak, dragging it through the bloody juices before bringing it to his mouth.
My stomach gives a heave as his lips smack.
From the nearby room, Ruslan cries out excitedly. The noise of him clacking his toys together has been the only thing keeping the dinner from being entirely silent. He joined us for all of five minutes before he finished his meal and asked to be excused.
I’ve never seen a kid shovel down a meal as fast as Ruslan did. Yevgeniy watched the boy fondly, like he was proud of this gluttonous show, before giving Ruslan permission to leave the table.
If I could be excused by simply clearing my plate, maybe I’d force the food down.
But I don’t want to leave my mom alone with this monster.
Yevgeniy glances over in the direction of his son. A faint smile crosses his lips before he looks directly at me.
“Is something wrong with your food?”
I set my fork down harder than I have to. “I don’t have an appetite.”
“Ah.” He shrugs. “I can have something else whipped up for you if you like.”
“What I’d like,” I say calmly, “is to not be sitting at the same table as a murderer.”
My mother releases a tiny, pressurized bit of air from her lips. It’s the only sound she makes. I don’t look at her—my attention is fixed on Yevgeniy—but I imagine her face is pure anxiety. Meanwhile, his is nothing but relaxed arrogance. He doesn’t react or say anything. Hell, he doesn’t even blink in response, as if my words are meaningless.
Lifting his glass, he takes a sip before replacing it on the table.
“Ruslan!” he calls.
There’s some shuffling in the other room, and then the young boy runs into view. “Yes, Papa?”
“Go play in the basement,” he says with a kind expression on his face. “I brought a new video game back for you. It’s down there next to the PlayStation.”
“You did?” Ruslan’s face lights up with glee. “Thank you!” His laughter can be heard long after he’s left the room. Once it fades entirely, Yevgeniy stares in my direction.
The kind expression still remains, but there’s something unmistakably sharp in his gaze. For a foolish moment, I’m afraid that if I stare too long, he might cut me with his eyes.
Stay strong. I swallow uncomfortably. Don’t show him any weakness.
“You called me a murderer, moya dorogaya doch,” he muses softly. “Why?”
I recoil at what he calls me—my dear daughter—and fight the urge to scream back that I don’t belong to him. But I don’t. I remain fixed in my spot, unable to answer at the moment.
Mom rocks in her chair, fidgeting from the growing tension. Her glass is empty. Gripping the bottle, she refills it, a few drops splattering from how violently her hand trembles.
Reaching over with a napkin, I clean the mess up for her. She gives me an appreciative, if weak, smile. It’s enough to give me the strength to answer.
“What’s to explain?” I ask as casually as I can. “Is that not what you are?”
“I suppose.” His lips curl up slightly, and his tone remains disturbingly mild. “But this sounds less like a general accusation,” he folds his fingers on the table, “and more like a specific instance you have in mind.”
I spare another glance at my mother. She’s looking down at her food like it’s the most interesting thing she’s ever seen. This could be a trap, I tell myself. He might be baiting me, trying to get info. But this shouldn’t be a secret ... He knows what he did, and I know he knows that Arsen has told me.
Pulling my shoulders back, I sit up and speak with confidence. “You killed Arsen’s wife, Kristina. His pregnant wife.”
