Page 115 of Sexting the Pakhan

That’s not enough.

A little girl runs past one of the side windows wearing a yellow dress that flashes under the lights. Another child follows more slowly, turning back toward someone I can’t see.

For no reason I want to examine, my chest tightens.

I look away. “Update me on Lenkov,” I say.

Pavel speaks into the earpiece, waits, then answers. “Still inside. Malik says he’s near the garden shed again. He has a tool bag.”

Stepan says, “He’ll try before the families leave.”

“He won’t finish,” I say.

“You sound sure.”

“I know fucks like him spook easily,” I say. And he probably knows we’re tailing him. This part I keep to myself. Something about the whole thing isn’t sitting right with me. There’s something I’m missing, but what?

My phone vibrates in my coat pocket. For a moment, I expect it to be one of the men, though most of them know not to contact me directly while Pavel is managing the line. I take it out anyway.

Unknown Number.

I go still before I can stop myself.

Stepan notices, because Stepan notices everything. He looks at the phone, then deliberately out the window.

I open the message.

A photo fills the screen. Two little girls stand side by side under bright classroom lights, hands linked between them. One wears a yellow dress and a crooked paper crown, glitter on her cheek, smile wide and fearless. The other is in a dark cardigan, chin lifted, trying very hard not to smile and failing at the corners. They’re both small, maybe five, with dark curls and serious eyes that do not belong on children so young.

For a few seconds, the noise outside the car disappears.

I don’t understand why the picture has been sent to me.

Then I remember what she told me last night.

First day of kindergarten tomorrow.

Children. Her children. The woman from the number has children old enough to stand in a classroom with paper crowns and little proud faces.

My thumb rests on the edge of the screen.

I should close it. Instead, I stare.

The girl in yellow looks like trouble. The other looks like judgment. I have no idea why that thought comes so quickly or why it makes something uncomfortable move behind my ribs.

They’re beautiful.

That’s the first clear thought.

The second is colder.

She sent me their faces.

By accident, probably. No mother who has guarded herself for six years sends a stranger a picture of her children on purpose. She has always been careful. No full name. No address. No images. Even in her loneliest messages, she kept the real parts of her life behind locked doors.

This picture is a mistake. I know that.

I should ignore it.