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“He mentioned an older woman.”

“Interesting.” His voice drops. “I found records.”

I straighten. “What records?”

“Financial transfers.”

Every ounce of my attention narrows onto Roman's voice.

“They started shortly after Clara died,” he continues.

A chill works its way through me.

“It seems Clara wasn’t as cut off from her family as we thought,” he adds.

Every muscle in my body goes still. “Explain.”

“I'm still putting it together,” Roman says. “But I think we've been looking in the wrong direction.”

I think of Clara. Whoever is behind this has spent years moving pieces across a board I couldn't fully see. That ends now.

“Keep digging,” I tell Roman.

My attention returns to the man sitting across the table. He knows I'm looking at him because his shoulders draw tighter.

“That's all I have,” he says quickly. “I swear to God.”

I believe him. Fear has stripped away everything except the truth, and he has nothing else to give me.

“Brat?” Roman says.

I keep my eyes on the man. “He doesn't have any more information.”

“My men will handle it.” Roman doesn't need to explain what comes next

The call ends.

The phone remains in my hand as I stare at the half-empty bottle of water.

Family.

An older woman.

Clara.

For the first time in years, I can feel the shape of something hidden beneath the surface, and now I know where to start looking.

9

MAGGIE

I wake before the alarm with the uncomfortable feeling that I never really fell asleep in the first place. The room is still dark beneath the heavy curtains, the stillness of the mansion wrapping around everything, but my mind is already moving. The shelter. The break-in. The attempted kidnapping. Irina. The growing list of things that seem to follow me no matter how hard I try to focus on anything else. And sitting right in the middle of all of it is the possibility I've spent days trying not to think about.

The nausea arrives before I even make it out of bed.

I press a hand against my stomach and close my eyes. Maybe it’s just stress. Lord knows I've got enough of that to spare. Anyone would feel sick after the last few weeks, and trying to pretend life hasn't completely changed. The problem is that I no longer fully believe that explanation.

By the time I reach the bathroom, my stomach is rolling hard enough that I have to hold the edge of the sink while I brush my teeth. The mint toothpaste only makes it worse. I stare at my reflection in the mirror, taking in the pale face, and the dark circles beneath my eyes.