Page 70

“You’re testing a child without the mother’s knowledge.”

“I’m aware.”

“That wasn’t approval.”

“I didn’t ask for approval.”

Polina exhales. “Send the glass in sterile packaging. Don’t touch the rim. If I can recover enough epithelial cells, I’ll compare the child’s DNA profile with the one from your stored blood.”

“How long?”

“I can give you a private result tonight. It won’t be suitable for court.”

I end the call and stand with the glass in my hand.

I hate myself before the decision is finished. Vera had the right to tell me. I had the right to ask. Instead, I am taking an answer from the trace her son left after drinking water in my bedroom.

I call Abramov and request a sterile evidence bag with no entry in the main log. He asks no questions. That makes it worse. The bag arrives ten minutes later. I seal the glass without touching the rim, hand it to Abramov’s courier, and watch him leave for Polina’s private lab.

An hour later, Misha returns with a folded drawing clutched against his chest. Oksana waits near the doorway while he crosses to me.

“This is for you.” He pushes the paper into my hand.

Three figures stand beneath a blue line of sky. The first has long, dark hair and green circles for eyes. The smallest holds a yellow car. The third is tall, black-shirted, and has a line across one eyebrow.

I lower myself to one knee beside Misha and touch the tall figure. “Who is this?” I ask.

“The serious man.” Misha leans against my knee. “He stays with Mama and Misha.”

My throat tightens.

I fold the drawing along its existing crease and place it inside my breast pocket. “Thank you.”

Misha pats the pocket to make sure it stays, then runs back to Oksana.

Later, Vera catches me on my way to the office. She was supposed to check my wounds an hour ago. Her expression gives me nothing about last night. In soft trousers and a plain sweater, she looks more like Misha’s mother today and far less like the surgeon who never stops working.

“You missed your check,” she says, then looks me over. “Although you look good.”

“A toddler made me healthy.”

“He isn’t meant for that role.” She follows me into the office, and her eyes drop to the corner of paper sticking out of my breast pocket. “What’s that?”

“A drawing.”

“Misha gave it to you?”

I nod.

She looks from the drawing to me, and the tension around her mouth eases. “What did he draw?”

“His family.”

She motions toward the chair beside my desk. “Sit. I still need to examine you.”

Nearly seven hours have passed since Abramov’s courier delivered the glass to Polina’s clinic. Vera has just removed the dressing over my ribs when the secure phone vibrates on the desk.

I reach for it and step away from her. She watches me cross to the window, unlock the phone, and open the message.