Page 94 of Hate You Most

“No,” she whispered.

Her throat closed so suddenly she couldn’t breathe properly. The room blurred as tears filled her eyes before she even realized they were coming.

“No,” she said again, her voice breaking this time.

Dakota stepped forward instinctively just as Viktoriya’s composure collapsed completely. The sob that escaped her chest was raw and startled. It had been pulled from somewhere deep inside her without warning, and before she could stop herself she leaned forward and buried her face against Dakota’s shoulder.

Dakota wrapped her arms around her immediately.

Viktoriya clutched around Dakota as the grief hit her all at once, violent and overwhelming. She didn't remember losing her mother, and she didn't remember saying goodbye to her.

“I didn’t—” she gasped between breaths. “I didn’t say goodbye—I didn't get to⁠—”

Dakota held her tighter, one hand moving gently through her hair as she cried.

“You probably did,” Dakota said softly. “You just can’t remember right now.” That didn’t make the pain any smaller. If anything it made it worse, because the idea that her mother had died while she was still alive somewhere in Viktoriya’s forgotten memories was unbearably cruel.

She cried against Dakota’s shoulder. Eventually the sobbing slowed, leaving Viktoriya exhausted and unsteady. Dakota didn’t pull away. She simply kept one arm around her while Viktoriya wiped at her eyes, embarrassed by how completely she had fallen apart.

“I’m sorry,” Viktoriya mumbled hoarsely.

“Don’t apologize,” Dakota said immediately.

Viktoriya took a slow breath, trying to steady herself.

For the first time since she had walked into the apartment, the tension that existed between them shifted into something else. Something that resembled the strange closeness they had shared before everything had fallen apart.

Viktoriya glanced around the room again, the familiar couch and windows suddenly feeling less like memories from another life and more like a place she might still belong.

“My hotel room is very small,” she said after a moment, her voice still rough from crying. “And cold.”

Dakota raised an eyebrow slightly. “Is that your way of saying something?”

Viktoriya hesitated before nodding. “Yes.”

Dakota studied her for a second, clearly understanding the meaning behind the words. “You want to move back in,” she said.

“If that is still okay.”

Dakota didn’t answer right away, but when she finally did there was a faint, relieved warmth in her voice. “Yeah. It’s okay.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

March 9th, 2023.

— Dakota Sanchez apartment. Detroit, Michigan.

The fourth crash got buried under the relentless noise of a pop star’s latest record-breaking release. By the time Viktoriya found it, the article was thin and stripped of details—it apparently didn't deserve the attention or the headlines.

The article carried the same detached language and neutral tone as the other crashes, but this time Viktoriya didn't find the same confusion or disbelief as she read through the article, nor did she experience the disorienting panic that had plagued her mind with anything related to her own accident; instead, she felt a slow sense of recognition. She knew these crashes were connected somehow, all she needed was for the broken pieces to form once again in her mind.

Her laptop sat in front of her on the kitchen island, the pale spring light stretching thinly across the oak and illuminating the untouched coffee at her side. The noise beyond the large windows had vanished into nothing but background noise.

The crash had been another late-night collision with a hit and run. Another public figure with ties to Russia had been targeted, and the article had described the car as “severely damaged beyond recognition.” And again, the same conclusion, repeated with such consistency that it felt like a decision that had been made in advance: no evidence of foul play, no indication of connection, no reason to suspect anything beyond unfortunate coincidence and circumstance.

Viktoriya leaned back slightly in her chair, her eyes lingering on the words as if staring long enough could force them into something more honest. But the words remained exactly as they were—deliberately unremarkable.

She scrolled further down the article.