"No," Mariya whispers beside me.
I glance at her and see the devastation written all over her face. Her green eyes are wide, her lips parted in shock, and her hands tremble as she reaches out to touch the doorframe like she needs to steady herself.
"When were you last here?" I ask, keeping my voice gentle.
"Nine years ago." Her voice is barely audible. "The day before my father testified. We came here for one last weekend together before everything changed."
Nine years. That's a long time to be away from a place that clearly meant something to her. I watch as she steps inside, her movements careful, like she's walking through a graveyard. She picks up a broken picture frame from the floor, and I see her throat work as she swallows hard.
The photo shows a younger Mariya, maybe ten or eleven, standing next to her father. They're both smiling, holding up fish they'd caught. She looks happy. Carefree. Nothing like the guarded woman I've come to know.
"I'm sorry," I say, and I mean it.
She sets the frame down carefully on a table that's been knocked on its side. "It's just a place."
But it's not just a place. I can see that in the way her fingers linger on the frame, in the way her eyes scan the destruction like she's cataloging every violation. This was her sanctuary, her last connection to a life that no longer exists.
Matvey moves through the cabin with practiced efficiency, checking rooms and closets. I follow Mariya as she walks through the space, her footsteps slow and hesitant. The kitchen is a disaster. Cabinets hang open, dishes smashed on the floor. The living room is worse, with the couch gutted and the coffee table split in half.
"Did your father have any hiding places here?" I ask. "Anywhere he might have stashed something important?"
She shakes her head, still looking around like she can't quite believe what she's seeing. "Not that I know of. But he spent a lot of time in the workshop out back. Maybe there's something there."
We head outside, and the fresh mountain air is a relief after the stuffiness of the cabin. The workshop is a small building about fifty feet from the main house, surrounded by tall pines. The door hangs open, and I can already see it's been ransacked, too.
Inside, tools are scattered across the floor. Workbenches have been overturned, and shelves have been pulled from the walls. But there are also things that haven't been touched. Pictures tacked to a bulletin board. A coffee mug sitting on a windowsill. Small, personal items that whoever searched this place didn't care about.
Mariya moves to the bulletin board, her fingers hovering over the photos pinned there. Most of them are of her at various ages. Building a birdhouse. Learning to use a saw. Painting a wooden box. In every picture, she's smiling, and her father is beside her, guiding her hands or watching with obvious pride.
"He taught me everything here," she says softly. "How to use tools, how to fix things. He said a woman should know how to take care of herself and not have to rely on anyone else."
I watch as a tear slides down her cheeks, and something twists in my chest. I've been so focused on finding the heirlooms and getting answers about my mother and sister that I haven't really thought about what this is costing her. She's lost her father, her home, her entire life. And now she's losing even these memories.
I move closer, standing behind her, and place my hand on her shoulder. She doesn't pull away. She just stands there, staring at the pictures, her body tense beneath my touch.
"Tell me about him," I say.
She's quiet for a long moment, and I think she's going to refuse. Then she starts talking.
"He was strict but fair. He expected a lot from me, but he also believed I could do anything I set my mind to." She touches one of the photos, her finger tracing the outline of her father's face. "He wasn't perfect. He was involved in things I didn't understand when I was younger. But he loved me. I never doubted that."
"Do you think he's still alive?"
"I don't know." Her voice breaks on the words. "Part of me hopes he is. Part of me hopes he's found peace somewhere, living a quiet life away from all this violence. But another part of me is angry. Angry that he left me alone. Angry that he never contacted me and that he put me in this position."
I understand that anger. I've felt it myself, directed at my father for dying too soon, at my mother for not being more careful, at the world for being so fucking cruel.
"Come on," I say, squeezing her shoulder gently. "Show me the rest of the property."
She wipes her eyes and nods, leading me out of the workshop. We walk in silence for a while, following a worn path through the trees. The property is bigger than I expected, with the cabin sitting on at least five acres of wooded land.
She shows me a small pond first, the water dark and still beneath the overhanging branches. "I used to feed the goldfish here every morning," she says, a small smile touching her lips. "My father stocked it when I was seven. Said every girl should have her own pond."
We continue walking, and she points out a hiking trail that leads up into the mountains. "We'd hike up there on weekends. There's a clearing about two miles up where you can see for miles. It's beautiful."
The way she talks about this place, the memories in her voice, it's clear how much it meant to her.
We circle back toward the cabin, and she stops at what looks like an overgrown garden area. Raised beds are barely visible beneath the weeds, and a small greenhouse sits at the far end, its glass panels cloudy with age.
