Chapter 3 - The House With Too Many Locks
Vadim did not live in a house.
He lived in a fortress pretending to be one.
The property sat north of Chicago behind stone walls, iron gates, cameras, and enough security to make the White House look casual.
Cleo stared through the SUV window.
“Is he a king?”
“No.”
Vadim glanced back.
“Definitely not.”
“Then why do you have guards?”
I answered before he could.
“Because your friend Misha has a very dramatic uncle.”
Vadim’s eyes met mine in the mirror.
“Accurate.”
Inside, the mansion was unexpectedly warm.
Not emotionally.
Architecturally.
Wood instead of marble. Books everywhere. Family photographs. A battered chessboard in the library.
Misha came running downstairs in pajamas.
“Cleo!”
Within minutes, the children disappeared toward the family room under supervision.
I turned on Vadim.
“Now explain.”
He dismissed everyone except a security chief named Anton.
Anton placed photographs on the dining table.
The two men from outside Cleo’s preschool.
Another man entering County General.
A woman standing beside my car.
My skin went cold.
“How long have you been watching me?”
“Protecting you,” Vadim corrected.
“Don’t play vocabulary games.”
“Since the medical bill.”
I stared at him.
“You had people following me?”
“Not constantly.”
“That is not better.”
“Someone accessed Misha’s hospital file forty-eight hours after his admission.”
Anton slid another page toward me.
“My name?”
“Was in the nursing notes,” Vadim said.
“And Cleo?”
Silence.
I understood.
“You investigated me.”
“Yes.”
I slapped him.
Anton moved instinctively.
Vadim lifted one hand.
Anton stopped.
The red mark appeared slowly across Vadim’s cheek.
“You do not investigate my child.”
“I needed to know whether you were a threat.”
“I saved your nephew.”
“And people have used children to get close to me before.”
I grabbed my purse.
“We’re leaving.”
“You can’t.”
“Try stopping me.”
“Reese, those men knew Cleo’s school.”
My hand froze on the chair.
Vadim lowered his voice.
“You may despise how I handled this. You have every right. But until I know who sent them, you stay here.”
I hated him for being right.
I hated myself more for feeling safer inside his walls.
That night, Cleo slept in a guest room beside Misha’s.
I did not sleep at all.
At 2:13 a.m., I found Vadim alone in the kitchen.
No jacket.
Sleeves rolled up.
A pistol lay beside his coffee.
“You always have that next to the sugar?”
“Only when guests complain about security.”
I sat across from him.
“Who wants Misha?”
“We don’t know.”
“You’re lying.”
“Yes.”
The honesty surprised me.
Vadim stared into his coffee.
“My organization has enemies. But this feels different.”
“How?”
“They could have killed Misha during the attack. They tried to take him instead.”
“For leverage?”
“Maybe.”
“You don’t believe that.”
“No.”
I studied him.
“What aren’t you telling me?”
His phone rang.
He looked at the screen.
Whatever he saw changed him instantly.
Vadim stood.
“Stay here.”
Naturally, I followed him.
He entered his office.
Anton was already there.
A video appeared on the wall monitor.
Security footage.
Hospital footage.
My hospital.
The timestamp was from the night Misha arrived.
Someone wearing scrubs entered the medication room.
Anton enlarged the image.
Dr. Evan Hale.
One of County General’s trauma physicians.
A man I had worked beside for three years.
“What am I looking at?”
Anton answered.
“Hale accessed Misha’s chart.”
“That’s normal.”
“Then he copied it.”
My mouth went dry.
Vadim turned toward me.
“Do you trust him?”
“Yes.”
The answer came too quickly.
Vadim noticed.
“Why?”
“Because he’s a doctor.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
I became angry because I suddenly understood where this was going.
Evan had asked me to dinner twice.
I had refused twice.
He had helped when Cleo had pneumonia.
He knew where she went to preschool.
Vadim watched realization cross my face.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Reese.”
“Evan knows Cleo.”
The room changed.
Vadim picked up his phone.
“No.”
I grabbed his wrist.
He looked down at my hand.
“You are not hurting him because he accessed a chart.”
“If he gave your address—”
“You don’t know that.”
His jaw tightened.
“Then I’ll ask.”
“You don’t ask questions like normal people.”
A strange flash passed through his eyes.
“You think you know me?”
“I think I know enough.”
He stepped closer.
“Then why are you holding my wrist?”
I released him.
Neither of us moved.
Anton cleared his throat.
“I can come back.”
“Stay,” I snapped.
Vadim almost smiled.
Then an alarm sounded.
Not loud.
Three short electronic tones.
Anton reached for his weapon.
Vadim’s expression went cold.
“What is it?”
Anton checked his phone.
“East gate.”
Another guard spoke through his earpiece.
Then Anton looked at me.
“Someone left a package.”
Ten minutes later, a black box sat beneath a portable scanner in the security room.
No explosives.
Vadim opened it.
Inside was a stuffed rabbit.
Cleo had one exactly like it.
Beneath the rabbit was a photograph.
Cleo leaving preschool.
On the back, someone had written four words.
THE NURSE HEARD EVERYTHING.
I stared at the message.
Vadim turned slowly toward me.
“What did you hear?”
“Nothing.”
“Think.”
“I was working.”
“The night Misha came in. Did you hear anything unusual?”
“No.”
Then I remembered.
Two men arguing outside the trauma bay.
One had spoken English.
The other had spoken Russian.
I had understood only three words.
Because my grandmother had been Ukrainian and had taught me fragments of Russian as a child.
Money.
Brother.
And—
“Chicago.”
Vadim stared at me.
“What else?”
“I don’t remember.”
But that was a lie.
Because suddenly I remembered one sentence perfectly.
Not because I understood it that night.
Because one of the men had repeated it in English.
“Vadim can never know the boy saw his brother.”
Vadim’s face emptied.
“My brother is dead.”
A sound came from the hallway.
Misha stood there.
Barefoot.
Pale.
“No,” he whispered.
We all turned.
May you like
Misha’s eyes filled with tears.
“My dad isn’t dead.”
