“You speak Russian?”
“I recognize my own name.”
“Maybe I spoke in code.”
“That would require advance planning. Which”—she glances pointedly at the broken window—“appears to be an unfamiliar concept.”
I almost smile again, but say nothing. We lapse into silence as I continue to speed toward Melun. Neither Misha nor the Italians will have any reason to check the cameras here, so wecan take a train the rest of the way to Fontainebleau. If Igor gives up on this idea and requests my return, I’ll have limited time to make a decision.
When we arrive at the train station, Carina doesn’t ask more questions. I park as far from the entrance as possible, wiping the wheel free of prints before slashing a back tire with the knife I keep on me at all times.
She watches with an impassive expression, but I can sense her disapproval. Either she’s too tired to argue or she’s accepted it’s pointless.
I purchase tickets, and we board the next train when it arrives. Carina remains quiet, occasionally fingering the pendant hanging from a thin chain for the seventeen minutes that the trip lasts.
Nine people, including us, exit the train at the same stop.
I lead her over to one of the loitering taxis, relaying an address to the cabbie in rapid French. Then hold the door open for her.
Carina doesn’t hesitate before climbing in.
IT’S ONLY LOVE
Iwash the sheets. They’re still damp when I pull them out of the dryer, which also doubled as the washer, but I’m too exhausted to wait for a second cycle to finish. All I care about is a lack of the mustiness that permeated the hostel’s generic bedding.
I make up the bed quickly, trying to focus on the clean scent of detergent instead of the way the lingering water makes some of the creases of the fabric feel sticky. I turn on the overhead fan, hoping it’ll finish the drying process, then head into the attached bathroom to get ready for bed. The cheapest room at the hostel where I was staying was a shared space with a communal bathroom. Not having to wait to use a sink or toilet feels like a luxury.
When I walk back into the bedroom, Lev is seated at the end of the mattress. An electric shock runs through me at the sight of him, still yet alert, the surrealness of this hitting me in full force. He hasn’t answered any of my questions, so I have no idea what he’s doing here. Why he bothered to track me down and whether I should believe his intentions are any more altruistic than Salvatore’s. He abandoned me, effectively, without an apology orexplanation, yet this is the calmest I’ve felt since lunch with my father. Lev is as secretive as ever, yet I view him as a savior.
“You should be careful who you trust.”
“The sheets are still wet,” I say as an icebreaker, although I doubt that escaped his attention—he’s sitting on them.
His head swivels slowly, the shift in position leisurely or perhaps reluctant. His eyes flick over me in a cursory appraisal, registering my pajamas and scrubbed face.
We’ve been alone, in a bedroom, many times before. But everything about this feels different, beginning with him not telling me to take off my clothes. Something ugly slithers in my stomach as I speculate all the reasons he might have lost interest.
I wish it had happened before he found out my real last name so I could justify withholding it.
It’s ridiculous, in the context of the disaster known as my current life—no job, no plan, no allies—and maybe that’s why I fixate on how his gaze hardly lingers before he turns away again. Stands.
“You have everything you need?”
“Some answers would be nice.”
He looks at me again, eyes remaining on my face. “I agree.”
I tense at the deliberate reference to our impasse.
I don’t understand why he won’t just tell me what his involvement is. I’ve never heard my father or brothers mention anything related to Russians. Can’t contemplate why Lev would possibly care about my family drama. He’s acting as though I crafted an entire secret identity simply to deceive him when I’d argue he knows a lot more about me than he’s ever shared about himself. Aside from being dangerous enough to get stabbed and experienced enough to treat stealing a car like a minor crime, I remain clueless about what it is Lev actually does.
“Good night, Carina.” He strides out of the room without saying anything else, presumably to sleep in one of the other bedrooms with dry, musty sheets.
Whoever owns this place doesn’t occupy it often. It has a forgotten mystique, the same stagnant feel as a church or a museum. Maintained, but not homey.
I open a window before climbing into bed, the night air circulated by the spinning fan.
I close my eyes, attempting to stop the spiral of my thoughts. All my problems will be waiting in the morning. I desperately need a decent night’s sleep, which will hopefully enable me to think more clearly.
