Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 68931 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 345(@200wpm)___ 276(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68931 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 345(@200wpm)___ 276(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
Yeah, my family is lovely. All nice and normal and sweet.
The argument in the kitchen seems to be dying down, so I decide to risk it. Rounding the corner behind which I’ve been hiding, I call out, “Mama? Did Dan say anything about cancelling our lesson today?” Stopping by the kitchen island, I blink exaggeratedly. “Oh, hi, Papa. Didn’t know you were there.”
Someone give me an Oscar.
Pavel, our chef who’s also our housekeeper, occasional bodyguard, and even more occasional enforcer, shoots me a sidelong glance from the counter where he’s chopping up vegetables for dinner. He’s not fooled. He probably heard me coming before I even exited the library.
I give him a bright smile. Pavel is my favorite person here—at least if I exclude Konstantin. Actually, my oldest brother no longer resides with us, so I don’t need to qualify that statement. Pavel is former military—he served with Papa long before I was born, in fact—and he still has all the habits and mannerisms he picked up in the army. He runs our household like a drill sergeant, with set mealtimes and so on. He’s also the size of a small truck, has a face that resembles a battered brick, and seems to possess all the emotions of a machine. But that last bit is a façade. I’ll never forget all the times he bandaged my scraped knees when I was a kid, nor all the treats he snuck up to my room when I was upset over something.
I think of him as my giant, not-so-cuddly teddy bear… who can kill on command.
“Alinochka, you look so nice,” Mama exclaims, giving my outfit an approving once-over. “Is that shirt new?”
Papa glares at her. “All her clothes are new, just like yours. None of you wear perfectly good shit twice.”
Well, he’s in a mood. I can hear the unspoken “ungrateful bitches” after that “you.” I used to wonder why Mama doesn’t just leave him, but now that I’m older, I understand that she can’t. Even if they didn’t have this messed-up love-hate connection, it’s not up to her.
He wouldn’t let her go.
“Don’t you dare use that kind of language around our daughter,” Mama hisses at him. “If she wants new clothes every day, she can fucking have them!”
Ugh. Here we go again. My shirt actually isn’t new—I’ve worn it a bunch of times at school—but anything I say in that regard will only add fuel to this shitstorm.
Papa opens his mouth, undoubtedly to light into her over her language, so I say quickly, “Mama, I was asking about Dan. He hasn’t shown up for our lesson.”
She goes from glaring at Papa to frowning at me. “He hasn’t?”
“No. Did he say he couldn’t make it today?” I’m tempted to ask if he quit, but that could result in all sorts of uncomfortable questions.
“He didn’t, no,” Mama says, her frown deepening. She turns to Papa. “You didn’t hear anything, right?”
“No,” he says, his upper lip curling. “Why would I?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because it’s your daughter’s education on the line—not that you give a fuck, you selfish bastard.”
And that’s my cue to leave. Making a face at Pavel, who’s looking at me sympathetically, I slip out of the kitchen and head upstairs to my room. I can’t wait for this stupid winter vacation to end. Being with my parents is the worst. Sometimes, I wonder how they even got together in the first place. Sure, Papa is ridiculously handsome in the way that all Molotov men are—even at his age, women stare at him like he’s their favorite flavor of ice cream—but Mama is beautiful too, and I’m sure she had options.
I used to think it was somehow my fault, their constant fights, but in recent years, I’ve come to the conclusion that they’re just toxic together. That their love, if that’s what it is, is poison at its core.
Sometimes I wonder if that poison has infected me… if I’m destined for an equally toxic relationship.
It’s not until an hour later, when I’m finishing up another level of Zelda, that my thoughts return to Dan. Why didn’t he show up? Even if I scared him off, shouldn’t he have called with some kind of an excuse? You don’t just flake on the Molotovs on a whim, at least not if you have any brains.
I go looking for my mom again, and this time, I get lucky and find her in the media room, watching a soap opera by herself.
“Any news on Dan?” I ask.
She pauses the TV and shakes her head. “I’ve tried calling him, but he’s not picking up. It goes straight to voicemail. I reached out to our contacts at the US embassy, but they said they haven’t heard from him either. He didn’t come to work today.”
Huh. Against my will, my mind flashes back to the menace emanating from Alexei yesterday, and a chill roughens the skin on my arms. Could Alexei have said something to my father yesterday? Or, even less likely, could he have done something to Dan himself? I don’t see why he’d do either—I’m nobody to him—but maybe evil doesn’t need a reason.