I failed, same as the prior twenty times, but Peter seemed to at least understand me on this attempt. He muttered “ptichka” and said something about a password with a thick Russian accent. Or maybe he even said it in Russian. For all I know, it’s the same word in both languages.
My vision blurs again with tears. It was a mistake to come here. I shouldn’t have taken this risk. Even in a sterile hospital setting, gunshot wounds are prone to complications, and given how much blood Peter has lost and where I had to treat him, infection was all but inevitable.
If I’d brought him to the hospital, he would’ve lost his freedom, but he might’ve lived.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, pressing my lips to his burning forehead. His body is fighting the infection and killing itself in the process. “I’m so sorry for this. For everything.”
And I am. I’m sorry for not admitting my love for him sooner, for resisting his love for so long. It seemed important at the time, not to give in to my feelings for George’s killer. It seemed moral and right. But now I see my resistance for what it was.
Cowardice.
I’d been afraid to fall for Peter, terrified to give in and love him. Petrified that if I let him into my heart, I would lose him.
Like I lost George to the bottle.
Like I knew I’d inevitably lose my parents.
More tears stream down my face, burning my throat on the way. That’s one worry I no longer need to have.
They’re dead.
The worst has come to pass.
I still can’t wrap my mind around what happened, can’t process the horror of seeing Mom’s brains blown out in front of me—and then squeezing the trigger myself. I’d felt no hesitation, no regret as I killed the agent who’d shot Mom—just that terrible numbness. It’s as if someone had taken over my body, someone ruthless and cold… and powerful.
God, it had felt so powerful.
Is that how it is for Peter? When he kills, does he turn off the part of himself that makes him human, embracing that rush of power? I’d always wondered how someone with such a deep capacity for love and caring could steal a life without remorse, but I understand it now.
We’re all monsters under the surface. Some of us just never get the chance to discover it.
His cracked lips move, and I reach for a bowl of water. Dipping a clean towel in, I drizzle the liquid over his mouth, careful to squeeze it out drop by drop so he doesn’t choke. The fever raging through his body is dehydrating him, killing him before my eyes, and there’s nothing I can do.
Even if I wanted to take him to the hospital, he wouldn’t survive a return trip on that bumpy dirt road—and without being able to access his phone, I can’t call or email for help from here. Nor can I drive somewhere to do so.
I can’t leave Peter alone for hours when he’s this sick.
He’s mumbling again, his head tossing from side to side in agitation as he repeats a phrase in Russian. It sounds like what he was saying before, when I thought he might’ve understood me.
“Nol’ shest’ ahdeen pyat’. Den’ rozhden’ye Andreya, ptichka.” His hoarse voice is barely audible. “Nol’ shest’ ahdeen pyat’.”
Leaning over him, I press my forehead to his. “What does that mean, darling?” I whisper, squeezing my eyes against a fresh influx of tears. “What are you trying to tell me?”
There’s something vaguely familiar about that phrase, or at least the individual words. Do I know them? I strain to recall what Peter’s teammates taught me in Japan. Spasibo—that’s “thank you” in Russian. Vkusno—that means “delicious.” Ilya also told me how to say the names of certain foods, and Anton started teaching me the alphabet and how to count to ten—
I sit up, electrified. That’s it! That’s why some of those words seem familiar.
They’re numbers in Russian.
“Peter, darling, is that the password?” My voice shakes as I lean over him again, smoothing back his sweat-dampened hair. “Are you telling how to unlock your phone in Russian?”
He doesn’t seem to hear me, his agitation easing as he sinks deeper into unconsciousness. Dragging in a calming breath, I try to recall the specific words he said and how the count to ten goes in Russian. There is an almost musical rhythm to it, if I recall correctly. Ahdeen, dva, tree, something, something, something…
Okay, then. So ahdeen is one, and I’m pretty sure Peter said that.
It was the third word after something that sounded like “null” and “jest.”
I rack my brain, trying to remember how Anton pronounced the rest of the numbers. Ahdeen, dva, tree… was it chet-something? pet-something?...
No, five was pyat’—which is what Peter said as the last word.
I try to suppress my excitement, but my heart is racing uncontrollably. I still don’t know two of the numbers, but I can venture a guess as to one of them.