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We wait inside the chilly interior of the car while the men carry the luggage from the plane and load it into the trunks. It looks like Marusya indeed packed for several months. When the last suitcase has been loaded, Igor shifts into the front passenger seat of our car while Yuri takes the wheel.
The engine starts up. As the car rolls forward smoothly, the finality of the situation sinks in, followed by a wave of nauseating fear.
We’re here.
There’s no turning back.
The car picks up speed, transporting me to an unknown future.
2
Kate
The drive passes in silence. I stare at the scenery through the tinted window, taking in the apartment blocks that eventually make way for statelier buildings. We follow a broad river for several miles before crossing a bridge. The signposts are in Russian. I have no idea where we’re heading, and the uncertainty adds to my fear.
As if reading my mind, Alex says, “We’re going to Krestovsky Island.”
I have no desire to look at him, but the sound of his voice pulls my gaze to him in a reflexive reaction.
“I realize this is all new and strange to you,” he continues. “If you want to know anything, you only have to ask.”
One question runs on repeat through my mind. “How long before you’ll let me go home?”
The tall buildings throw shadows over the road that intersperse with the bright winter afternoon sun. They play over his face as we speed along, making the laugh lines etched from his nose to his mouth appear deeper.
“Katyusha,” he says after a tense beat. “I’m trying to be patient, but don’t push me. Not on this.”
“Fine.” I shrug. “Why don’t you just tell me what you want me to say? It’ll make the road forward considerably smoother for both of us.”
He clenches his jaw. “This doesn’t have to be hard on you.”
“Are you for real?” I twist in my seat, facing him squarely. “What did you expect? That I’d be excited about this trip?”
“You could be.” He lays his arm on the backrest behind me and rubs a finger over the curve of my shoulder. “Think of this unforeseen getaway as a vacation.”
I shift to the edge of my seat, escaping his touch. “This is not a vacation, and I’m not in the habit of lying to myself.”
He lowers his arm to his side. “Your attitude is only making it worse.”
My attitude? What about his? My nails dig into my palms. “What I think and feel doesn’t matter, right? So why do you even care if it’s new, strange, or scary for me?”
His eyes crinkle in the corners. “That’s not true, kiska, and you know that. If you want a reminder that I care about you, you don’t have to search very hard. The fact that we’re here spells it out in bold letters, don’t you think? Now stop being difficult. You’re looking for a fight to appease your anger, and it’s not going to happen.”
I grit my teeth in powerless fury and angry frustration. This isn’t about picking a fight, but there’s no winning this argument with him. There’s no way of making him see the situation from my point of view.
When he reaches for my hand, I wrap my arms around my body. Rejecting him hurts me, especially when I fear more for his life than for my own, but I don’t know if I can forgive him for what he’s done, not when he doesn’t show a stitch of remorse.
He drops his hand, letting it rest on the seat between us, close enough for his knuckles to brush against my thigh. “We’re going to a house I own on the island. It’s one of the best neighborhoods in St. Petersburg.”
I want to ask if that’s supposed to make me happy, but I bite my tongue. Things are bad enough, and further conflict won’t help. We’re talking in circles. A sudden spell of exhaustion washes over me. These bizarre circumstances are emotionally draining. I’m too tired even to think.
Leaning back, I sink deeper into my seat, escaping my thoughts by focusing on the sights through the window. We cross over another bridge and continue to drive along the river. My jaw drops as I take in the mansions set on generous, snow-covered gardens facing the river. The deeper we drive into the island, the more luxurious the properties become.
These aren’t houses. They’re palaces, and their gardens are parks.
One property is so big it takes up the whole block. A green metal roof, maybe oxidized copper, is visible through treetops from behind a high wall. The driver pulls up to eight-foot-high iron gates that swing open as we approach. The garden we pass through is a winter landscape dotted with naked trees. Right in the middle of it stands an imposing four-story sandstone palace with a turret on each corner and decorative balcony rails in front of the windows.
