Page 3

But why would it be hidden?
I sidle up to the wooden box and take the folded paper. I unroll the sheet of paper and freeze. A cold weight settles in my chest.
It’s a birth certificate, and I don’t think it’s a full one as the parents aren’t listed on it.
It is also Russian.
I recognize the Cyrillic immediately—thanks to my mom insisting we speak it fluently. “Because of who your father and I work for,” she always said when my sister and I complained.
I’d rolled my eyes as a teenager, but at this moment, I’m grateful for it. Actually being able to speak Russian now that I work at the Ember Club has come in handy most days.
My eyes scan the document.
Name of child: Lidiya Zorin
Date of birth: 1 June 1998
My birthdate.
My heartbeat stumbles.
Place of birth: Sokolov Medical Center, Moscow.
My knees nearly buckle, and I grip the side of the table to steady myself.
I’ve never been to Russia. I was born in Nevada. That’s what my records say. That’s what my parents always told me.
So why is there a birth certificate—official, stamped and signed—saying someone with my birthday was born in Moscow?
Someone named Lidiya Zorin, and why would it be in my father’s box of treasures?
The paper shakes in my grip. Either my father kept this for a reason... or my whole life is built on a lie.
I’m about to crack under the weight of questions and emotions I barely understand. The woman in the picture. The name on the birth certificate. The words on the back of the photo. The world pitches and steadies as I clutch the piece of paper in my hand.
“I wonder if I can get a full copy of this birth certificate?” I mumble to the empty unit.
The jarring trill of my phone jerks me back to reality. It’s my mother.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Hello, sweetheart, do you have the plates?” she asks, her voice calm while I feel like a soda that’s been shaken one too many times, and I’m about to blow, erupting like a soda volcano.
“Yes. I’ve got them. I’m leaving now.” I can’t believe how calm I managed to sound. “I should be home in about fifteen minutes.” I have an urge to demand answers, but I take a deep breath instead. “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
Tara. Stay calm. Think this through.
“See you in fifteen, sweetheart,” she says. “Drive safe.”
The line goes dead, and I stare at the objects before shoving them back in the box, grabbing the plates, and heading to my mother's, trying to decide the best way to get answers. My mother has always been a master of vague answers.
2
RUSLAN
Seventeen Months Ago
Vegas stinks of desperation hidden behind too much cologne and illusion. From the floor-to-ceiling windows of my Diamond Hotel suite, I stare down at the Strip. It pulses and glitters like a machine running too hot, too fast. My reflection stares back, expression cold, untouched by the city’s delusions.