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"Are you even watching?" Evelyn asks, her head resting against my good shoulder.
"Yeah." The lie comes easy.
She shifts beside me, careful not to jostle my wound. "Liar."
I almost smile. She's learning to read me too well.
The living room is dim, afternoon light filtering through the blinds. We've finally moved from the bedroom where we’ve been all day, tangled in sheets, ordering food, pretending the world outside doesn't exist. It's a fantasy I've never allowed myself before.
My thoughts drift to Ivan's face when I faced him in that cell. The satisfaction in his eyes when he thought he'd won. The sound of gunshots echoing off concrete walls.
"What are you thinking about?" Evelyn's voice pulls me back.
"Nothing." Another lie.
She props herself up on one elbow, studying me. "Your jaw gets tight when you're lying."
I reach up, touch her face. "I'm thinking about how close I came to losing you."
It's not the complete truth but it's not a lie either. When I heard she’d left the apartment, something broke inside me. Something I didn't know could break.
"I shouldn't have gone there," she whispers.
"No, you shouldn't have." I keep my voice even, controlled. No point rehashing it now. "But you're here. Your sister's safe. Ivan's dead."
"And you almost died."
I shrug, immediately regretting it when pain shoots through my chest. "Occupational hazard."
She doesn't laugh. Her eyes drift to the bandage visible above the sheet.
"I'm fine," I tell her.
"You're not." Her fingers hover over the gauze. "But I appreciate you staying in bed today."
I don't tell her it's not entirely by choice. That standing for too long makes my vision blur. That I'm weaker than I've ever allowed myself to be.
Instead I pull her closer, careful not to wince when she settles against me.
"What happens now?" she asks.
"What do you want to happen now?" I respond, watching her face carefully. The question hangs between us, heavier than it should be.
Evelyn's eyes drift away from mine, focusing on some point beyond my shoulder. She's quiet for a long moment, her fingers absently tracing patterns on the sheet.
"I need to see my father," she says, her voice hardening around the edges. "There are things we need to discuss, I need to say."
I raise an eyebrow. "Your father?"
"Yes." Her jaw tightens. "Things that happened... things he made me suffer through for years."
Something cold settles in my stomach. I've watched her for ten months—tracked her movements, memorized her schedule, learned her favorite foods and the way she holds her violin. But this... this is something I don't know.
"What things?" I ask, keeping my voice neutral.
She shakes her head slightly. "It doesn't matter."
"It matters to me."