Page 8 of Savage Lies

That doesn’t sound like a legitimate shipping business.

I retreat to the kitchen before he catches me eavesdropping. Still, something about it feels familiar. Like I’ve heard threats like that before.

Which is ridiculous. I’m an art curator, not a gangster.

The penthouse feels staged. Beautiful. Expensive. A museum exhibit of someone else’s life. None of it resonates.

I wandered through these rooms for an hour, touching things that supposedly belong to me, searching for some spark of recognition that never comes.

In the bedroom closet, I find clothes in my exact size. Designer dresses, silk blouses, and jeans that fit perfectly when I tried them on this morning. The fabric feels expensive but foreign. Like costumes for a role I don’t remember auditioning for.

The jewelry box on the dresser is filled with pieces that should mean something—a pearl necklace Dmitri claims was my grandmother’s, and earrings he supposedly gave me for our first anniversary. I put on the pearls and stare at myself in the mirror, but the woman looking back at me feels like a stranger wearing someone else’s jewelry.

On the nightstand, I find books about contemporary art movements and exhibition catalogs from galleries around the world. My supposed area of expertise. I flip through one about Russian avant-garde painters, expecting some flicker of familiarity, but the words might as well be written in Latin.

Maybe this is normal. Maybe amnesia feels exactly like this—like you’re an actor who’s forgotten all her lines.

Dmitri’s voice rises from the office, switching between Russian and English with the fluidity of someone accustomed to conducting business across multiple countries. I catch fragments about shipments and deadlines, but underneath the legitimate-sounding logistics is an undercurrent of threat that makes my skin crawl.

“If the cargo doesn’t arrive clean, someone’s going to have a very unpleasant conversation with my associates,” he declaresin English, presumably for the benefit of whoever’s on the other end.

Holy shit.

I’m married to a criminal.

The realization should shock me, but instead it settles into my bones like something I’ve always known. Like my subconscious has been trying to tell me what my conscious mind refuses to accept.

I move to the living room, where those photographs document a relationship I can’t remember. Each image is perfectly composed and professionally lit, but they feel more like marketing materials than real memories. Us at dinner, hands intertwined across a candlelit table. Me laughing at something he’s supposedly said. Him looking at me with an intensity that should be romantic but somehow feels predatory.

“…and make sure the cleanup crew understands that loose ends are not acceptable,” Dmitri continues from his office.

Cleanup crew. Loose ends.

My fingers find the crescent moon tattoo on my wrist, and I trace the small symbol that’s the only thing about my body that feels truly mine. When I touch it, I get flashes of something—stars overhead, a woman’s voice humming a lullaby, and the smell of pine trees and campfire smoke.

But the images are fragmented, like trying to remember a dream after waking.

I wander into the kitchen, thinking maybe making breakfast will feel normal. Domestic. Wifely. The refrigerator is stocked withexpensive food—imported cheeses, organic vegetables, and wine with multiple syllables in its name.

I grab a jar of preserves from the top shelf and open it.

The motion triggers something violent and immediate.

Hands at my throat. A knife. My body moves without thought—elbow, solar plexus, grab the wrist, twist, bones crack, pivot?—

The flashback slams into me. I drop the jar. Glass and strawberry preserves explode across the floor.

Art curators don’t know three ways to snap a neck.

“Katya?” Dmitri’s voice comes from the doorway, making me flinch. “What happened?”

I look up at him, still crouched on the floor surrounded by broken glass, my hands frozen in what I’m pretty sure is a combat stance.

“I… I dropped the jar,” I say weakly.

But we both know that’s not what has me shaking.

He moves toward me slowly, like he’s approaching a spooked animal, and kneels beside me on the kitchen floor. His hands are gentle as he takes my wrists, and he eyes my defensive posture with eyes that miss nothing.