Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 87695 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87695 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
I’m about to give up when I try the last frame. It’s all the way at the top, almost out of reach. I hear footsteps in the hallway, and my hands are shaking as I slip out the back and find an old, faded image.
The photo is of two people, a man and a woman. He’s got dark hair and a wicked smile. I recognize my father instantly. It’s winter wherever they are. His arm is across the woman’s shoulder. She’s nearly his height with blonde hair and deep blue eyes, a lot like mine. I can see so much of myself in her: the same nose, the same jaw, the same cheeks.
“What the hell are you doing, Alina?!” My father stands in the doorway, staring at me with his mouth hanging open. Rage fills his face, and his forehead turns bright red. “You know damn well you aren’t allowed in here without my permission.”
I can’t take my eyes off the photo. “This is her, isn’t it?” I have to lean back against his desk or else I’m going to fall over. I feel sick. My legs go weak and my stomach twists. “You knew, didn’t you? This whole time, you knew?”
His rage stalls. He comes into the office and shuts the door behind him. “I don’t have any clue what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t lie to me.” I keep staring at the woman in the picture. I’ve only ever seen her in this picture and only once when my father was drunk years back. He took it from the backing and told me to take a long look at it. There were tears in his eyes. I’d never seen him that emotional before, which is why the moment stands out. At the time, I just assumed it was the drink making him act that way.
“Who do you think you’re talking to, girl?”
“I spoke with her tonight. I saw her face.”
His face pales. The anger completely drains away like leaves in the wind. “How did you find her?”
“This is Molchanie.” I hold the picture at him. My hands are shaking. “This is my mother.”
He makes a low, strangled noise in the back of his throat. His eyes shake as he looks at the image in my hand. I’m struggling not to get sick, but he doesn’t deny it. He doesn’t say anything at all.
I remember that night. The first night I saw this picture. The only time he ever showed me. Take a good look, Alina. This is the woman that broke my heart. This is your mother. Beautiful, isn’t she? I see her every time I look at you. Take a good look, because you’ll never see her again.
He was so hurt and angry back then.
Now he just looks small and terrified.
“I wasn’t sure,” he whispers as he walks over to the bar cart in the corner. He pours himself a vodka, hesitates, and pours a second for me. I accept the drink before he collapses into his chair behind the desk.
I throw the drink back, savoring the dull warmth, needing something to wake me from this nightmare.
I take the seat across from him, still holding the picture of my mother.
“But you suspected, didn’t you?”
“I’d heard rumors about her after she left. Things didn’t go the way she expected back in Russia. She decided to turn freelance. A part of me thought she might show up here again one day, but she never did. And she still hasn’t.”
He sips his vodka. He looks so small and old all of a sudden. His shoulders slump, and he stares ahead like he’s looking through old movies in his head.
“Who is she?” I whisper, wanting to know, but afraid of the answer. “No more games. No more pretending. Who is Molchanie?”
“You guessed correctly. If Molchanie is the woman in that photograph, then she’s your mother.”
I let out a long, painful breath. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“There was nothing to say. Your mother left a week after your first birthday. She was never a part of your life. She made it clear she didn’t want to be here anymore, and I wasn’t ever to contact her. I respected her wishes. And now she’s back.”
“How is she doing all this? The murders… I don’t understand. Who is my mother?”
He sits back in his chair with a groan. His eyes squeeze shut, and they’re glistening when he opens them again. I feel small and confused. A part of me wishes I’d never come here. It would’ve been better never to find all this out.
“Her name is Darya Sokolova. I met her during one of my trips to Moscow back in those days. I told the truth before. She worked for the SVR in those days, which is the modern foreign spy agency in Russia. I didn’t know it at the time, but she was assigned to report on my movements and my business.”