Kat
“Come with me.”
Darya follows Pavel down the hallway, passing by me without so much as a glance. My heart twists at the sight of her, fragile and scared.
They vanish around the corner. Once they’ve reached the second floor, I step up a few stairs and hear Pavel say, “We can talk in my office.”
I sigh. I know that I should go back to the kitchen and leave them to their conversation, but I can’t.
I shouldn’t be doing this, I think as I ascend the stairs, making my way toward Pavel’s office. I know it’s wrong, slipping through the halls like a criminal in my own home, pressing my ear to Pavel’s office door. I’m ignoring every polite instinct I have. But the second I saw Darya walking on the street, I felt my stomach knot. I knew she had information.
I can hear their voices on the other side of the door, muffled but distinct.
Screw it.
I press my ear against the door and strain to listen. I catch half a sentence here, a stray word there, longing for more clarity. Damn this door. Darya raises her voice slightly. I can’t quite make out every syllable, but I can piece some words together.
“…Piotr…bragging…he said he was pakhan…better than his father…helped it along…”
My pulse spikes, blood roaring in my ears, and I freeze. A cold dread coils through my gut. Did Darya just say Piotr helped something along? He was always bragging about being pakhan at such a young age…so what is it that he helped along?
My heart pounds so violently, I’m sure they can hear it. I press my palm to my mouth, stifling a cry. Is she implying Piotr killed our parents? No. That can’t be. I won’t believe it. I can’t believe it.
I step back from the door, my mind screaming at me to run in there and demand an explanation. But the rest—my body, my heart, my messy emotional side—refuses. If I confront it now, I’ll have to face the possibility that it might be true. I’m not sure I can do that. Not yet, anyway. I need more evidence.
Spinning on my heel, I quietly walk away, nearly tripping over a side table in my frantic rush. The hallway feels too tight, the walls pressing in. By the time I reach the stairs, I’m gasping for air.
I find myself in the kitchen, leaning against the island, my hands braced on the cool granite. My mind spins, replaying Darya’s words, searching for a way to interpret them that doesn’t lead to the unthinkable.
Piotr is cold and cunning. He’s ruthless, manipulative, and about as considerate as a drunk bull in a China shop. But killing our parents? That’s a whole other level of evil.
No.
There must be some mistake. Darya’s lying, or someone paid her to lie, or she completely misheard.
I squeeze my eyes shut, swallowing back a wave of nausea. The idea of Piotr orchestrating our parents’ deaths sits like poison in my veins, spreading dread through every inch of me. The nausea lingers, reminding me of my other secret. I need air. I need time to think.
The front door buzzer jars me out of my spiraling thoughts. It rings through the kitchen’s intercom, echoing off the tiled walls. I blink, glancing around. Pavel is still upstairs with Darya.
I walk to the small screen on the wall and press the button. “Yes?” My voice comes out steadier than I feel.
“It’s Vlad,” the front desk guard says. “He’s got a woman and a little girl with him.”
