Page 14

“Why does an eight-year-old need a bodyguard?”

Kirill looks out the window. “Security.”

I stare at him.“Your conversational skills are dazzling.”

“I have been told.”

Anya giggles.

I look back at her. “Is your father famous?”

“No,” Anya says.

Kirill makes a small sound that might be a cough.

I narrow my eyes. “Is your father infamous?”

Anya frowns. “What does that mean?”

“Never mind.” I decide not to ask anything else.

Partly because my head is beginning to pound harder.

Partly because there is an increasingly realistic possibility that I don’t want the answers.

We leave the city center behind. The buildings thin out. Traffic becomes lighter.

We enter a neighborhood where the houses grow larger, then significantly larger, and finally become the kind of properties that require gates merely to inform you where the property technically begins.

I glance at Anya.

She’s now watching me instead of the road.

“How far away do you live?” I ask.

“Not far,” Anya says.

We’ve been driving for twenty-three minutes.Children have a fascinating concept of distance. The SUV turns onto a narrow private road bordered by tall trees.

Ahead, black iron gates rise between stone pillars.

Not decorative gates… Serious gates.

There’s a guardhouse. Cameras rotate discreetly above the entrance.

A man in a dark suit steps out, the gates begin opening before we stop.

I sit a little straighter. “Anya.”

“Yes?” she asks.

“Why does your house have border control?”

Kirill looks out the window again.

Coward.

The SUV passes through. The property beyond is enormous.