His eyes narrow. “Like what?”
“Like this is a problem to manage.”
“It is a problem to manage.”
“They are not a problem,” I say. “They are my children.”
Mama starts crying harder.
Irina says, “Maybe you should have remembered that before you walked out.”
“Don’t say another word to me,” I say.
“Katerina—” My father says in a warning.
But I can’t stop.
I look at him and all I can think is that he’s too calm. He was too calm after the shooting. He’s too calm now. He looks furious, yes, but not lost. Not shocked. Not like a man whose grandchildren have just been taken from his own house.
And that frightens me more than anything else in the room.
“Who got into your security?” I ask him.
He goes still. It’s only a second, but I see it.
I say it again. “Who got into your house?”
His face hardens. “This is not the time.”
“It’s exactly the time.”
“Katerina.”
“No. Don’t.” I shake my head, and now I can hear myself unraveling but I can’t stop. “First the shooting. Now this. I can’t believe you would just let it happen.”
“What are you trying to say?” he says.
Mama says, frightened now, “Please, not now.”
I don’t look at her. I keep looking at him.
Because for the first time in my life, I think I’m seeing my father clearly and I hate what that might mean.
He lowers his voice. “Go upstairs.”
I stare at him. “What?”
“Go upstairs. Change. Get hold of yourself.”
“My children have been kidnapped.”
“Yes,” he says. “And I will deal with it.”
That’s the exact wrong thing to say.
The words come out of me before I can stop them.
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
