Page 47 of The Last Dance

Yuri added, “It’s addressed to Iren. No return.”

My mouth went dry. I didn’t reach for it, didn’t even move, just stared at the thing like it was radioactive.

Vadim didn’t look at me when he said, “You didn’t know?”

I shook my head, slow.

“Would you have told me if you did?” His tone was flat, not accusing, but not not-accusing either.

I stared at the envelope. “Yes.”

Yuri nodded, as if this confirmed some theory he’d held.

Vadim set the envelope on the desk. Then, to my surprise, he stood up, circled the desk, and held it out to me. He wasn’t offering it like a gift, more like a warning. “Open it,” he said.

My hands were steady. I broke the seal and slid out a single page, folded once. The handwriting was neat, tight, a perfectionist’s print.

I didn’t read it. I just stared at the top line, unable to process the fact that this was real, that Parsons had found a way through the wall, that even here, behind all the marble and muscle and money, I was not unreachable.

Vadim watched my face. After a long beat, he said, “Read it out loud.”

My voice was hoarse, but I did it anyway:

Iren—

It is strange to write your name, to imagine you seeing it on paper. I see you everywhere these days, and when I close my eyes at night, you are there in the same clothes, the same posture. I wonder if you know I can still see you. I wonder if, on some level, you want me to.

The house is ready. The room has been painted, the new window installed. There is light here, good light, and I have ordered the shelves for your books. I do not know what kind you prefer, but I have made my best guess. There is a desk and a chair, and the mattress is new. I chose one that will not hurt your back.

It is quieter here than I expected. I have work, but it is nothing without you in the space. Sometimes I imagine you coming home, after a long day, sitting across from me at the table, and telling me about the things you have learned. I would listen to every word. I would make you whatever dinner you wanted. I am learning to cook.

It is not right, what they are doing to you. I am sorry for it. I am sorry for the pain, and for the violence, and for the fear. You are not an object. You are a soul that can still be saved. I know you are frightened, but I am not frightened. I will wait for you. I will always wait.

If you are ready, you know how to find me. If you are not, I will be patient. One day soon, you will come. I believe this.

With patience and faith—

R.

I read it in a monotone, fast, just to get to the end before my voice cracked. When I was done, I set the letter on the table and wiped my hands on my jeans, because suddenly my skin was crawling with a cold, electric sweat.

Vadim was silent for a full minute. Then, quietly: “He is not going to stop.”

Yuri looked at him. “No.”

Vadim took the letter and folded it in half, then again, then set it aside. He was careful, almost tender, with the paper. “He will escalate.”

“Of course,” Yuri said.

Vadim turned to me. There was nothing soft in his face, but something about the lines had shifted—less calculation, more calculation. He said, “Are you afraid?”

I thought about it. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

He nodded, as if that made sense.

Yuri stood. “There are tactical options,” he said. “We can rotate the boy through safe houses. Never stay in one place longer than seventy-two hours. Or we take him abroad for a time—”

“No,” Vadim said. It was not a negotiation.