She listens for another second, then the phone slips in her hand and I catch it before it hits the table.
“Katerina.”
She looks at me, but she’s not really seeing me yet.
I take hold of her shoulders. “What happened?”
Her mouth opens. She swallows once. Then she says, “The twins.”
That’s enough to stop my own breathing for a second.
“What about them?”
Her eyes fill, but she’s still too shocked to cry.
“They’re gone,” she says.
Then, more clearly, because she needs to hear it herself if it’s going to be real. “They took the twins.”
30
KATERINA
The drive back feels endless.
I spend the first five minutes calling the house over and over even though I already know no one is going to tell me anything useful until I’m standing there in front of them and can force it out myself. My hands are shaking so badly I hit the wrong contact twice.
Roman takes the phone from me once, quietly, and says, “Stop.”
I snatch it back. “Don’t.”
He says nothing.
That only makes me angrier.
“I left them,” I say, staring out the window because if I look at him I’ll scream. “I left them.”
Roman keeps his eyes on the road. “You didn’t know.”
“I should have known.”
“You couldn’t.”
“I don’t need your input.”
He takes that without reacting.
I sit there breathing unevenly, hating him for being calm, hating myself for leaving, hating the whole world for continuing to exist outside the window while my children are somewhere I can’t reach.
By the time we turn into the drive, my heart is pounding so hard it hurts.
Roman pulls up short of the steps.
I’m already reaching for the handle when he says, “Katerina.”
I turn back.
His face is hard and controlled again, but his voice is quieter than it was in the car. “I’ll stay out of sight. If you need me, call.”
