I wrap up my meeting with Berkowitz by shaking his hand. Once my shades are back on, I retreat upstairs and breeze out the door. The tourists on the sidewalk wrap around me like a protective cocoon. I look like I’m just another kid wandering the streets in this getup. No one has any idea who I am.
And I can’t think of a more relieving way to exist.
***
The cabbie drifts to the curb and drops me off several blocks away, barely looking at me as I hand over a few bills. I drop his tip on the seat and leave quietly. The stale sea air and the sound of seagulls greet me as I close the cab door.
This is my life. This is where I’m stuck until this is all over.
The boardwalk springs to life to my left. I wander toward the safe house with my shades on and my beanie tight over my forehead. I’m staring at the ground. There’s not much else for me to do as I walk home.
My phone vibrates in the back pocket of my jeans. Exasperated by it going off all day—mostly from Pavel calling and texting—I check it just to make sure my husband hasn’t had a heart attack.
I freeze. The shoes I’m wearing feel like dumbbells keeping me from stepping forward. My shoulders bow inward. My jaw slowly drops.
What I see is horrific. A picture of Zoya. Then a text message:
“You missed a hell of a party.”
Nausea slams into my gut. Then fury. Then terror. Another picture appears before I have time to respond. More pictures come, each one more horrific than the last. Each one promising fresh endless torment that leaves me sick to my stomach.
I shove my phone into my pocket as I race toward the safe house. Cool air stings my lungs as I sprint up the steps. I unlock the door and stumble into the foyer.
Right into someone’s arms.
I shove away. “Sorry.”
“Liya.”
I look up at Pavel. His eyes are bloodshot, and the lines around his mouth make his skin droop. He looks troubled, agitated—like he hasn’t been able to think straight for God knows how long.
I close my eyes and step back.
He touches my shoulder, his voice hard and insistent. “Where have you been?”
“I got a text.”
“From who?”
I scrub my forehead. “Cardona. It’s Zoya.”
Pavel advances. “Show me.”
“I can’t. It’s…” I turn away as tears sting my eyes. I don’t want to see those pictures again. “I met with the DA. I had to make it quick, okay? I couldn’t tell you.”
“Liya, look at me.”
I don’t want to look at him. If I gaze into his eyes—if I have to see the pain sitting there like a spotlight illuminating me in a crowded audience—then I might break down.
I’m not sure I can handle that right now.
He holds my shoulders. “Rodnaya, please. You’re shaking.”
“I’m fine. I—”
“I’m worried about her, too.”
He wraps me in a hug. He squeezes me just the way I like. Not too hard. Firm and tender. But there’s no hiding the slight tremor in him as he holds me. A tremor that betrays the storm underneath his mask of calmness. A mask that’s on the verge of cracking.