Page 16 of The Enforcer’s Pawn

“Mama is making a grown-up point,” I say, then soften my voice for him. “Mik, go sit at the counter and choose your pasta bowl.”

“But I haven’t had dinner.”

“Exactly. Bowl first, then cheese mountain.” My voice comes out firmer than I mean to. It makes me hate Patrick a little more.

Patrick raises both hands, still holding the car. “Easy. I’m making conversation.”

“You’re poking.”

“You always were touchy when I got near the truth.”

I send Patrick a new login link and close the laptop.

“There,” I say. “Portal works. Get your act together and pay an actual cybersecurity person next time.”

“I have you.”

“No,” I say, “you don’t have me.”

His smile stays, yet something behind it moves. “You’re my baby sister.”

“I’m thirty.”

“Still.” That word sinks deep. Still means he can ask for favors, and he can walk in when he likes. Still means Mom will call if I hurt his feelings, because he’s Patrick.

Patrick stops by the door and glances at the fridge, where Mikhail’s drawing hangs under a magnet from the aquarium. Three stick figures stand beside something that might be a rocket or a building on fire. One figure is tall and black-haired, with thick arms and a big, frowning face.

“Who’s that?” Patrick asks.

“My friend,” Mikhail says before I can answer.

I open the door wider. “Goodnight.”

Patrick turns back from the hall. “You don’t have to do all of this alone.”

“I’m fine,” I say and lock the door after him.

He whistles on his way to the elevator, pleased with himself, and I want to kick him in the shin the way I did when we were kids.

I slide the chain, check the deadbolt twice, then wait at the peephole until the elevator doors close around him.

Dinner goes the way dinner usually goes. Mikhail eats pasta with his fingers after swearing he won’t. He asks whether sharks sleep. He puts a meatball in his milk and tells me it’s science. He doesn’t ask about Patrick or why I get angry when he comes over, and I’m grateful for that in a way that makes my chest hurt.

For one second, I see another face in his. A man I knew for one night five years ago. Then I look at Mikhail again. My son. His unfinished dinner. The sauce on his chin. The toothbrush he’ll fight me over because he thinks mint is “spicy”.

I clean the table, wash his hands, help him brush his teeth, and tuck him into bed.

The apartment belongs to me, at least until morning. Patrick’s flash drive goes into a plastic bag near the sink. I don’t trust anything he brings into my home. Then I make hot chocolate, my one small indulgence. I sit on the sofa, tuck my feet under me, and check Kathryn’s last message.

You alive?

I type back, Alive. Dinner survived. Patrick came by.

The reply arrives fast.

Emergency phrase?

No, I write. He was being Patrick.