“Tornike…” she gasps, her voice barely a whisper. “They have us. They have Davit. You need to come.”
“Where are you? Who has you?”
“I don’t know... Russians. They want information about Dato. They said if you come to the old textile warehouse tomorrow at noon, they’ll negotiate…”
“Don’t tell them anything! Do you hear me? Nothing…”
“Please, Tornike! Just come! They broke my foot... they’re going to hurt Davit if you don't…”
I nod to Oksana, who ends the call with a click. “Good,” I say, turning toward the exit. “Now we wait.”
I walk out, the sound of her sobbing following me into the hallway while Davit remains in his corner, a silent, frozen witness to it all.
I pick Zoya up from campus at three, and when I pull up to the spot, she’s already running toward the car with her breath coming in short, ragged bursts. Something is clearly wrong. She yanks the door open and throws herself into the passenger seat, her eyes darting around as she says a single word: “Drive.”
I pull into the flow of traffic, keeping my eyes on the road but my focus entirely on her. “What happened?”
“Nothing. I’m fine.”
She’s not fine; her hands are shaking so violently she has to clench them into fists to hide the tremor.
“Zoya…”
“I’m good, really.” She buckles her seatbelt and forces a bright, brittle smile that doesn't reach her eyes. “How was your day?”
“I had a very boring meeting. How was your first day?”
“It was good. I made a few friends, I think.”
“That’s good.”
We drive the rest of the way in a heavy silence, Zoya staring fixedly out the window while I keep glancing over, trying to read the tension in her shoulders. When we finally get home, she goes straight upstairs without a word, and I follow her. She’s only halfway up when she stumbles. Her hand shoots out, catching the railing with a sharp metallic clang that echoes through the quiet house.
“Zoya?”
“I’m fine,” she says, though her voice sounds thin and airy. “Just dizzy.”
I’m beside her in two steps, my hand firm on her elbow to steady her. “Sit down.”
“I’m okay, Alexei…”
“Sit.” It isn’t a request.
She sinks onto the carpeted step and buries her head in her hands. I crouch in front of her, studying her face in the dim light. She's far too pale, her skin looking almost translucent.
“What happened?” I ask.
“I don’t know. Everything just started spinning the moment I hit the stairs. It’s probably nothing.” She looks up at me, her gaze flickering with a touch of uncertainty. “I also bumped into someone at school today and fell down. Maybe I hit my head or something.”
“You fell? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because you always make a big deal about everything. I’m fine.”
She’s not fine. I can see the exhaustion deep in her eyes. I help her to her feet and guide her up the rest of the stairs, moving slowly until we reach the bedroom. I don't give her a choice about the next step; I’m already heading into thebathroom to run the water hot, swirling in the rose oil and the chocolate soap she loves.
When I come back out, she’s still sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at nothing.
“Bath’s ready.”