Page 90 of The Wrong Monster

“Even then. I’m your attorney.”

“Vasily seems very confident in you.” The mention of his name sends an unwanted flicker through me. Mikhail is watching me with hooded eyes, assessing and measuring me against his earlier option: Beaumont. I wonder if anyone’s told him that Beaumont’s legal advice was to feed him to the wolves.

“He should be. I’m good at what I do.”

Mikhail gives me a strange look. “You know, most people who work for him don’t inspire that kind of confidence.”

“I’m not most people.”

“No,” he says quietly. “You’re not.”

I lean forward. “They’re going to try to make you believe this is your only opportunity. It isn’t. They’re going to want you scared enough to take whatever they put in front of you.”

“And if they’re right?”

“We don’t know that yet. A plea offer isn’t proof their case is weak. But the invoice they’re relying on doesn’t match the approval copy, and my expert is tracing that difference. That’s a reason to fight. It isn’t a guarantee.”

My voice is firmer than I expect. I gather the papers in front of me and stand.

“My recommendation is that we make them prove every part of their case. But if you want to take the offer, we talk through the consequences before you decide.”

Mikhail looks at me for another moment before finally nodding.

“I want to fight it. Tell them no to twenty-five years. If they change it, I want to know exactly what they’re asking.”

Something loosens in my chest, but I hold still, not wanting to show it.

“Good. Just follow my lead.”

The door opens. Our time is up.

* * *

The prosecutor sits across from us with a thin folder in front of him, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

“If Mr. Osipov is willing to plead guilty,” he says, “we’re prepared to recommend twenty-five years.”

I don’t blink.

“No.”

Mikhail shifts beside me, but I don’t look at him. I can feel his discomfort, his calculation. Depending on what other charges the prosecutor decides to pin on him, the sentence could stretch for a decade past that.

We’ve discussed that risk. He’s chosen to face it, but knowing the numbers and hearing them said across a table are two different things.

The prosecutor raises an eyebrow.

“Twenty-five years is substantially less than the maximum sentence we’re seeking.”

“I heard you.”

“And?”

“No.”

He sighs as though I’m being difficult. I almost smile. This feels like…home. Like I can feel the ground beneath my feet again.

I’m just warming up.