Page 130 of Scarlet Thorns

“This is it,” the driver says, pulling up to the curb.

I reach into my pocket and pull out a wad of cash, peeling off several hundreds. The driver’s eyes widen when he sees the amount.

“It’s way too much, sir.”

“Take your wife somewhere nice,” I tell him, already stepping onto the sidewalk.

The orphanage’s front steps stretch before me, and I stop at the bottom, staring up at the heavy wooden doors. Behind those doors is my son. The boy I thought was dead. The child who’s been living without his father.

I’m about to have the most unique and soul-crushing experience anyone in this world has ever had. I’m going to see the owner of the tiny feet that I saw kicking through Galina’s womb.

I’m shaking as I climb the steps. Each one brings me closer to a reckoning I’m not prepared for. But I climb anyway, because running away isn’t an option anymore. Not when it comes to Slava.

The reception area is warm and welcoming, with children’s artwork covering the walls and the faint scent of cookies drifting from somewhere deeper in the building. A young woman sits behind the front desk, her smile bright and professional.

“Good afternoon. How can I help you?”

“I need to see someone about one of your children. Slava.” The words sound foreign as I say them. Slava. My son has a name. A name I didn’t give him.

Her smile falters slightly. “I’m sorry, but visits require an appointment. Are you family?”

“I’m his father.”

The receptionist’s eyes widen, and she fumbles for her phone.

“I… let me call the director. Please, have a seat.” She gestures to a chair before mumbling something urgently into the receiver.

I don’t sit. I pace the small waiting area, studying the photos of happy families on the walls. Adoption success stories. Children who found their forever homes. Children who weren’t abandoned by their own fucking fathers.

Footsteps on the stairs announce the director’s arrival before I see him. A man in his fifties, graying hair framing a dusky face, with kind eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses. His badge reads “Cameron Simpson, Director.”

“Mr…?”

“Sidorov.” I straighten and he tilts his head to look up at me.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you.” He extends a hand, which I shake briskly. “Would you come with me?” He nods in the direction of the hallway.

I follow him down a corridor lined with more photos and kids’ drawings framed in cheap, cheerful frames until we reach an office at the end of the hall. Pushing the door open, he walks in and nods to a chair before taking a seat across the desk.

“Now then,” he says, steepling his fingers. “I believe you claim to be related to one of our children.”

“Slava Sidorov,” I say the surname firmly. “He’s my son.”

His expression sharpens slightly. “I see. Mr. Sidorov, you must understand. You can’t just come in here making these claims. How am I supposed to know you’re telling the truth?”

Blyad.

He has a point. I can tell I won’t get anywhere with this guy unless I tell him the full story. The real story.

“Mr. Simpson.” I lean forward, lowering my voice. “I need you to understand that you can never speak a word of what I’m about to tell you.” I slide an envelope across his desk— twenty thousand in cash. His eyes almost pop out of his head. “Is this enough to keep your mouth shut?”

He pushes the envelope back toward me, his expression hardening. “Mr. Sidorov, I’m not a man you can buy with money.”

“I’m not here to bribe you.” I meet his eyes, letting him see the desperation I’ve been trying to hide. “I am here as a desperate father asking for your help.”

Something in my voice must convince him, because he settles back in his chair and nods. “Tell me.”

So I tell him about Galina. About the night she was murdered while carrying my child. About the lies I was told, the way I left Boston to start fresh, to avoid the inevitable investigation. About the months of believing my son was dead while he was actually growing up in this building.