Page 49 of Sexting the Pakhan

That’s the closest he comes to telling me to be patient. He knows better than to use the word.

I lean back against the table and look at the line of faces again. None of them matter. They are hands. Paid hands. I need the man who opened the door and pointed them in my direction.

Stepan waits a moment before saying, “And the girl?”

I look at Stepan.

He doesn’t back away from the question. “Why is she still here?”

“She was seen with me.”

“That was four days ago.”

“She can still be used.”

“So move her somewhere else.”

I say nothing.

Stepan watches me with the patience of a man who has decided the safest way to test a blade is to touch it very carefully. “Or send her home with two men outside her building. Or put her with her friend. Or put her in one of the apartments we use for witnesses. There are options.”

“I know the options.”

“Then choose one.”

I pick up one of the photographs and look at it, though I have already memorized the face.

The truth is ugly because it is simple. I don’t know what to do with her.

Keeping Zoya here is not practical. It makes the house noisier without her saying much. It gives my men something to notice. It gives Stepan something to ask about. It puts her close enough that I know when she comes downstairs for tea at three in the morning, close enough that I see the circles under her eyes getting worse, close enough that I hear her laugh once on the phone with Karina and feel relief like it belongs to me.

Sending her away is also not practical.

That’s what I tell myself.

The men who came for me saw her. The mole may have seen more. Her apartment isn’t secure, her routines are obvious, and she has no idea how to live like a target.

All true. Not the whole truth.

Stepan lets the silence stretch, then exhales through his nose. “You don’t trust her.”

“No.”

“But you don’t think she’s involved.”

“No.”

“And yet she stays.”

I set the photograph down. “Careful.”

He nods once, not apologizing. “Always.”

He leaves a few minutes later to make calls. I remain at the table, staring at names that refuse to become answers.

By evening, rain starts over the sea. It hits the windows lightly at first, then harder, turning the view beyond the glass into a dark blur. The house becomes quieter in bad weather. Men lower their voices. Doors close softer. Even the water sounds closer, as if the whole coast has moved in around us.

At eight, Anya tells me dinner is ready.