Page 67

I touch my wrist, the place where until recently a faded oldfriendship bracelet remained. It was the only memento I took with me when I left, a souvenir from a sparkling, sun-filled week we’d all spent up at Roman’s finca, when Darya and I made bracelets with his children. I managed to drop it on the ground in the old mining camp, a breadcrumb left in the vain hope that someone might come looking for me one day.

Now I just wish I’d kept it, to remind myself that kind of happiness exists.

Though, if I’m honest, now that I’ve had time to think, that blissful week has been left tarnished by the things I chose not to say. By the questions that must now remain forever unanswered.

Would Dimitry and I have had a chance if I’d spoken up back then?

I’ve asked myself that question so many times it’s worn a painful groove in my brain titleduseless regrets.And the truth is that if I was back in the same situation now, I’m still not sure I would do anything differently.

I wanted to be honest, but the more entwined my life and Dimitry’s became, the more complicated it all seemed. I was so damned happy when I was with him that I didn’t want to risk ruining it.

And besides, it wasn’t just me who avoided talking about the future.

No, Abby.I shift restlessly on my bunk.You don’t get to blame Dimitry for this.

I didn’t exactly make it easy for him.

I never made it easy for anyone.

Maybe that’s what hurts the most. The realization that I’ve spent so long blaming others for my problems. If there’s one thing the prolonged months of confinement have taught me, it’s to take responsibility for my own actions.

I blamed Dimitry for being bratva, just like I spent my teenage years blaming my parents for the life they’d chosen.The reality is that the only person I was really angry at was myself.

And then I ran away. From anyone who ever truly mattered to me.

God, what I’d do for a bottle of wine and a packet of cigarettes right now.

Any more of this self-examination shit and I’m going to go insane.

I roll over impatiently before remembering the battered state of my body, then bite down on my lip to stop myself crying out.

Stop feeling sorry for yourself, Abby,I tell myself sternly. I, of all people,know that prison can be a whole lot fucking worse than a bed and a decent meal every day, even if I have to take a few brutal runs to stay alive.Suck it up and stop complaining.

I stare up into the darkness, sleep evading me, horribly aware that my chances of working effectively tomorrow are diminishing with every moment of insomnia.

Which means I’ll probably be running the Loop yet again.

Well, Abby, at least if you ever get out of here, you’ll have buns of fucking steel.

10

Dimitry

London, England

Present Day

Isay goodbye to Leon in the drop-off lane of Heathrow airport.

“Don’t be a stranger,” he says. “You’ve got my number. If there’s anything I can do, don’t hesitate to give me a call.” He gives me the ghost of a wink. “You’d be amazed how resourceful art dealers can be in cutting through red tape when it’s required.”

“I appreciate that.” I shake his hand, meaning it. “Thanks. For everything.”

“Good luck, Dimitry.” His smile is genuine. “Don’t be a stranger,” he says again as he pulls his silver convertible out into traffic, raising a hand in farewell.

My phone rings just as I turn toward the terminal. “Mak,” I say when I answer. “Thanks for getting back to me so fast.”

“Dimitry.” Makari Tereschenko’s dry, sardonic drawlcomes down the line, sounding as relaxed as if he were eating strawberries and cream at Wimbledon, though I happen to know for a fact that he’s currently somewhere in northern Africa.