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I manage to hold it together long enough to get inside and lock the door. Then the tears come. And when they come, they come in devastating waves, each one leaving me more exhausted than the last. They’re the kind of tears that start somewhere deep in your chest, building pressure until they explode outward

Olivia barely speaks as I guide her through the woods. Her hand stays limp in mine, neither pulling away nor squeezing back. The silence eats at me worse than her anger ever could. At least when she’s shouting, I know what she’s thinking. This black fucking void where her feelings should be is swallowing us

“Would you like to walk with me?” Natalia asks, standing by the window with morning light catching the silver threads in her dark hair. “There’s a trail behind the house. Nothing strenuous—I imagine you could use some fresh air after being cooped up.” I should say no. It would be much smarter to stay put

When I step into the Blue Suite, Mikayla is sitting on the edge of the bed, wearing fresh clothes—a simple black sweater and jeans that make her look younger, more vulnerable than her usual head-to-toe black. The bruises on her face have darkened to purple-green, and there’s a cut on her lip I don’t remember

The cemetery sprawls before me in the pre-dawn darkness, headstones jutting from frozen earth like broken teeth. My father’s grave sits in the corner, far away from the ostentatious mausoleums of Boston’s elite. It’s a simple black granite marker with equally simple text: Matvey Safonov, 1965-2009. No “beloved husband.” No “loving father.” Just a name and

I don’t know how long I sit there. Long enough that the sun sets and gloom takes over the living room. Eventually, feeling gross in ways I can’t quite explain, I go searching for the room Natalia mentioned. I find a small, nice bedroom at the end of the hall. Soft gray walls, white furniture,

My mother. Alive. That doesn’t make any fucking sense. “You’re lying.” “Am I?” Mikayla rolls her shoulders, testing the chains that bind her to the metal chair. We’re down in one of the basement rooms now—concrete walls, no windows, a single bulb overhead. “Why would I lie about that?” “To save your skin. To fuck

“You’re Natalia Safonova.” The woman seated across from me shrugs. “I was. Now, I’m just Natalia. The Safonova name carries too much baggage.” She stands and moves to the window, gazing out at the manicured lawn. The afternoon light catches her profile—and suddenly, I see it. The proud cheekbones. The straight nose. Features softened by