“Nut,” I say, fighting to cover my disappointment.
“I need your help,” she pleads.
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
Years of practice make it easy to keep my voice neutral. I hear the psychiatrist from juvenile detention, testing my recall about co-dependent relationships. I hear the other under-age criminals in the mandatory group therapy sessions, talking about setting and maintaining boundaries. I hear Mr. A, telling me that Shannon’s emergencies—and, by extension, Megan’s—don’t have to be mine.
“He’s going to kill me,” Nutmeg says.
“Whois going to kill you?”
“Pyotr Tarasov.”
I recognize the name. Anyone in my field would. “What did you do to the Baltimore bratva?” I ask my little sister.
“Nothing. I mean, I didn’t know Pyotr was bratva when we met. He was just another guest.” She’s talking too fast, which is probably nerves. But I don’t know what has her more afraid—the heir to the Russian mob or the fact that I might decide not to believe her.
“Where was he a guest?” I ask, doing my best to sound detached.
“At your wedding!”
The truth spills out of her, one jagged phrase at a time. She met Tarasov at the reception Kate and I never got to. One drink turned to ten, Nutmeg swapping out her vodka for water. Pyotr fell for a lonely-hearts scam, hook, line, and Russian sinker.
Over two weeks, Nutmeg took the bratva heir for a hundred grand. She shut down the con a week ago, but Tarasov isn’t taking nyet for an answer.
“He keeps tracking me down, Cole. I dumped my phone. I cut up my credit cards. I swear to God, I haven’t left this crappy motel room in forty-eight hours. But Pyotr called this morning. He knows where I’m staying.”
She’s crying, which doesn’t mean much because Nutmeg has been able to produce tears on command since she was three.
“He’s probably lying. He wants you to be scared.”
She hiccups before she protests. “He read off the address!”
“Sounds like you need somewhere else to live.”
This isn’t about her housing arrangements. It’s never about a home, or about a bank account or about any material possessions. It’s about a lifetime of running cons, about the sick power that comes from cheating strangers.
“He’ll just find me again.” Her voice cracks, like she’s desperate.
“Then you’d better hope he’s willing to settle for getting his money back.”
“I don’t have his money. Not anymore!”
This is just another shakedown. My sister got all the money she could from her Russian chump, and now she’s trying to empty my pockets. I know the cycle as well as I know the seasons.
I’m supposed to stay calm. I’m supposed to remember I can love my sister, even though I hate the things she does. I’m supposed to?—
“Cole!” she wails. “He says he’ll cut up my face. And if I don’t pay up a week after that, he’ll use the same knife to…” She’s bawling too hard to finish reciting the threat.
She’s my sister. None of the things I’msupposed todo matter.
“Fine,” I say, after a too-long pause that’s filled with the sound of her heartbroken sobs. “Come to the house. Just this once, Nut, I’ll help you out.”
“Th— thank you,” she sobs. “I can’t tell you how much… Thank you, Cole. Seriously. I mean it. I love you.”
I hang up, because I can’t stomach any more lies.
50