Page 74 of Cruel Demands

“Hi, baby.”

No. Absolutely not. My mother only calls me baby when she’s trying not to cry. I sit up straighter. “What happened?”

“Nothing happened.”

“Mom.”

She exhales. I can picture her perfectly: standing in the kitchen before sunrise, one hand wrapped around a mug, the other pressed to her forehead. “It’s just been a hard week,” she says.

My stomach tightens. “A restaurant hard week or a normal hard week?”

She laughs softly. It sounds tired. “Restaurant.”

I close my eyes. The apartment beyond my door is quiet except for Anya moving around in the kitchen. A cabinet opens. A spoon clinks against a mug. Normal sounds. Safe sounds. I have no right to be this far away. “What happened?” I ask.

“Your dad had to push back a supplier payment. Again. And the air unit is making that noise, the one it made last summer before it died for two days. He says it’s fine, but you know your father.”

I do. My father says everything is fine the way a man in a sinking boat says the water is refreshing. “How much?” I ask.

“Taylor, no.”

“How much?”

“I didn’t call for that.”

“Mom.”

“I just wanted to hear your voice.”

That’s worse. So much worse. If she asked me for money, I could be useful. If she only wants comfort, then I have to sit here in my Moscow apartment, surrounded by all the proof of what they paid for, and do nothing but listen.

“I can send some,” I say.

“No.”

“I have a little saved.”

“You need that.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re in another country.”

“I’m in a city, Mom. They have banks.”

“Do not get smart with me from Russia.” Her snappy tone catches me off guard. It catches her too. For half a second, we sound normal. We both chuckle. Then she goes quiet. “I don’t want you worrying about us.”

“I already am.”

“I know.”

That makes my throat close. I stand and pace. My room is too small for this conversation. Too small for my mother’s tired voice, my father’s struggling restaurant, the new job I’m already ruining, and Mikhail Korolev’s fingerprints still ghosting my skin.

“I’ll send something,” I say.

“Taylor—”

“I’m sending it.”