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No one speaks. Kevin’s mother is obviously surprised by a second visitor, and shoots daggers at me for a moment. Matty’s gaze moves past me, taking in the small kitchen. The faded cabinets, the old table, the photographs held to the refrigerator by mismatched magnets.

Kevin at five.

Kevin missing his front teeth.

Kevin standing beside his mother on what looks like the first day of school.

Her eyes move to the woman standing in front of me. Then to me.

I watch the understanding settle over her features.

This isn’t a business meeting or one of my properties. I’m not, as she probably imagined in the car with the rain picking up, beating someone to a bloody pulp over unpaid protection fees or rent.

It’s a mother whose son was nearly killed. My jaw tightens.

“Matilda is Mikhail’s lawyer,” I say stiffly.

Kevin’s mother looks between us, clearly confused by the sudden appearance of a beautiful woman in the middle of her kitchen. Matilda gives her a small, polite smile.

“Matilda, this is Mrs. Harris.”

She nods stiffly. I turn back to Kevin’s mother, trying to keep my anger at bay, because the last thing I want is for Mrs. Harris to think I’m bringing violence into her home. Not after what Kevin has been through.

“May I see him?”

Her eyes fill again, but she turns away quickly and nods.

“He’s in the back bedroom, to the left. Don’t let him get too excited. He needs to rest.”

I thank her with a slight inclination of my head. Then I start toward the narrow hallway, feeling my shoulders fill it almost immediately. The old wood groans beneath my shoes.

Behind me, I hear Matilda follow. I don’t turn around or bother asking her to stay in the kitchen, because I can’t subject Mrs. Harris to such an infuriating woman and Matilda won’t listen, anyway.

But for some reason, Matilda stops just short of the closed bedroom door. She looks at me with wide eyes, the ice-blue suddenly seeming more innocent than I’ve ever noticed. When I turn the knob and step in, she doesn’t follow. Just leans her back against the wall, staring at the one opposite.

Inside, Kevin is lying on the bed, dozing. A sheet is tangled in his legs, his left arm in a cast that looks uncomfortable and clunky. When I step into the room, he jerks fully awake.

“Calm down,” I say quietly, palms out. “It’s just me.”

His eyes dart to the window despite being several floors off the ground, and then back to me, where they soften and look exhausted again. He pulls himself further up the bed, murmuring, “Mr. Borisov, sir. You didn’t have to come.”

“I wanted to.”

I look around the room, spotting a ragged computer chair and looking askance at Kevin. He gestures awkwardly with the hand immobilized by the cast, and I sit. For a few moments we simply stay like that, in silence. The Pakhan in me notices small details. The way he slows his breathing and looks down at the tangled sheet, not meeting my eyes.

He’s preparing for an interrogation. It makes my stomach burn with guilt.

Instead, I ask him about the basketball under his desk. And after a few other short, casual questions, the tension in his body eases. He looks up at me. I sit and listen, and it feels like repentance.

* * *

Within minutes he’s talking about school, which seems to mean sports. Apparently he wants to try out for baseball next year, and I tell him he should. He argues that his mother will never let him play after what happened.

“She’ll come around,” I tell him.

He smiles. Then he sees Matilda, who has surreptitiously leaned into the doorway, clearly listening in on the conversation.

The smile disappears.