Page 66 of The Beast of Moscow

A person couldn’t deny Hannah a thing, not if they spent any reasonable amount of time with her simply because of her sweet personality and friendly nature. There was no one more helpful; not a soul in the world more kind.

As far as Vera was concerned, anyway.

That was why the second she laid eyes on her friend after not seeing her for months, and the first thing Hannah did was smile in her big, bright way that showed off all of her straight, white teeth, she almost burst into tears.

Well, she might have shed a few.

Hannah let Vera hide them in the shoulder of her cream silk blouse while the two hugged next to the patio table in front of the cafe where they’d chosen to meet up. For the first time in over two years, since Hannah had met, married, and left the man she called her husband, there wasn’t a bruise to find on her.

No healing, yellowish fingerprints on her arms to tell Vera her friend had been squeezed so hard Viktor had left marks behind again. There weren’t any dark circles, or even caked on concealer to hide a lack of sleep or another punch to the face, when she’d pulled off her large-framed sunglasses to greet Vera.

Sometimes, she’d excused it.

Other times, Hannah had outright lied to Vera.

And anyone else who dared to ask or try to help when Hannah pulled away and her husband’s controlling, abusive behavior became more apparent to the people in her life.

Then, Viktor had almost killed her. Vera would never be able to get the image of her friend’s raccoon-bruised eyes staring back at her from a hospital bed out of her head. That memory, and every lump and bruise and cut on Hannah’s body after that beating, were reminders of why she had to get away.

The subsequent divorce and Hannah’s secretly chartered jet out of Russia in the middle of the night once the ink was dry had left Vera stranded, in a way. Not a bad way, because Hannah absolutely needed to leave, but it was all so fast.

“We didn’t really get to say goodbye, did we?” her friend asked.

Vera pulled away from Hannah’s hug with a shuddering exhale of breath that belied the tears she’d wiped away as fast as they came. “You always know what I’m thinking.”

“Since that day you sat on the studio floor across from me and asked if I was Irish, yep.”

Her reply was typical, golden Hannah, too.

“My father is, but that’s just what the DNA said, so.”

Vera later learned that Hannah did spend a portion of her youth with her father’s family, but he wasn’t in the picture much.

A burst of nervous laughter escaped Vera. “You called Tony a shite.”

“He was!” Then, Hannah stepped back a little more from Vera, and gave her high-waisted, sky-blue skinny jeans and white knotted crop-top a look. She didn’t linger for long on the pointed toe flats Vera had pulled on to match her top. “I like it—still no heels, though?”

“Kitten only—”

“And only for special events,” her friend interjected with a nod. “See, nothing’s changed.”

That was easy for Hannah to say, and honestly, Vera understood why she would want everything to just ... go back. Back to a time when things were different before she’d met Viktor—or maybe before he’d changed.

Too much had happened for that, though.

“You’re okay, right?” Vera asked.

Hannah smiled again. “Yeah, I am. Coffee, and then we’re finding somewhere new for dinner, right?”

“Can I get another hug first?”

Her friend’s arms were already opened, and the shorter, pixie-like woman launched herself straight at Vera ready to swallow her whole. Her hugs were as great and as warm as her smile. Too big for her small size, stronger than anyone knew, and safe.

Vera had never understood how someone who proclaimed to love Hannah could stand to hurt her or make her cry.

“I miss you everyday,” Vera told Hannah, her words muffled against their tight embrace.

“Me, too.”