"Agreed," I say, matching her professional tone. "I've been reviewing the evidence we collected, and there are patterns we haven't explored yet."
Relief flickers across her face before she can hide it. I tell myself that I have to give her time, let her process, and that she will come back when she's ready.
We settle at the dining table with laptops and documents, working in silence that feels heavier than it should. The seamless coordination we seemed to have yesterday while we were investigating is gone. Instead, every interaction feels forced and cautious now.
Back to being two strangers..
Like we didn't spend hours learning every sound the other makes when they come apart.
"Here," she says after an hour of tense silence, pointing to a financial transaction on her screen. "Remember those thirty-seven women we found yesterday? I'm tracking one specific case—Rebecca Torres. Female, twenties, supposed to be in protective custody after testifying against a trafficking ring."
I lean over to examine the record, careful not to touch her despite the way my body screams to close the distance between us. "What did you find?"
"Harrison's signature is all over this one too. But look at this." She pulls up another document. "He didn't just sign off on thebudget for her protection detail. He personally approved the safe house location three times—each time moving her to a less secure facility."
A clear proof that he was preparing the sale.
The realization makes rage burn through my chest. We knew about the trafficking, but seeing the methodical preparation makes it even worse.
"He groomed them for sale," Mariana’s voice feels tight with suppressed fury. "Look at this pattern—every woman was moved at least twice before disappearing. Always to locations with fewer cameras, less oversight."
"Making them easier to extract without witnesses."
"Exactly. And there's more," Mariana continues, her voice dropping. "I found something in the older files. A case from twenty-one years ago that follows the exact same pattern. Female, late teens, Russian immigrant."
I go completely still. "When exactly?"
"Same year your family died at Chernobyl. Same timeframe you mentioned last night when you told me about losing everyone." She pulls up the file. "The woman's name was Anya Kozlov. She fled to the US Embassy in Moscow seeking asylum, claiming her husband had connections to organized crime and was threatening to kill her if she testified about his operations."
Anya.
The name tears through me like shrapnel. My sister. Eighteen years old, terrified, running to the US Embassy because she thought they could protect her. She thought America would keep her safe from the monster she'd married.
"Mikhail?" Mariana's voice cuts through the fury clouding my vision. "Do you recognize that name? Is she related to you?"
I can't speak. Can't breathe. Can't do anything but stare at my sister's name on the screen.
"She is—" My voice breaks, and I have to start again. "Anya was my sister."
The words hang in the air between us like a confession. Mariana's face goes pale as she processes what this means.
"Oh my God. Your sister? Harrison got your—"
We both know my sister is not alive anymore. "Not directly, probably. He sold her location to someone who wanted her silenced. Someone who paid well enough that a junior prosecutor was willing to compromise a vulnerable woman's safety."
Someone who turned my sister into merchandise.
"No," I say quietly, answering her unspoken question. "I'm not okay."
She moves around the table without hesitation, her professional distance forgotten in the face of my pain. When she touches my shoulder, the simple comfort nearly breaks me.
"Mikhail, I'm so sorry…"
"Twenty-three years," I say, my voice rough. "Twenty-three years I've believed she died because I wasn't there to protect her. Because I failed her."
"Now you know it wasn't your fault." Her hand tightens on my shoulder, grounding me. "Harrison is responsible. And we're going to make him pay for it."
The certainty in her voice pulls me back from the edge of rage-fueled violence. She's right. Killing Harrison in a moment of blind fury won't bring Anya back. Won't help the thirty-six other women he sold. Won't clear our names or expose the full scope of his corruption.
