Need to Know (20 page)

I lie awake that night with the gun on the bedside table next to me. I stare at it in the darkness. This is all surreal. The kids are involved now. It might not have been an explicit threat, but the implication is clear: They'll use my kids as leverage. And that changes everything.

I can't stop thinking about that day at the shooting range. Matt wanted me to practice. He specifically mentioned the Russians, too. It's like he knew this day might come, knew I had to be prepared.

I roll on my side, away from the gun, toward the spot where Matt should be lying. The bed seems especially empty tonight, especially cold.

I finally get out of bed. My mind won't shut off, won't let me sleep. I walk through the quiet house. I peek in on the kids, check the locks on the doors and windows, the third time tonight. I find my way to the front hall, pull the folded paper from my work bag. Then I take it into the family room, the room where the kids play, where so much of our life has taken place. I sink down on the couch and unfold it, stare at the map, the box outlined in red.

Yury's there, somewhere. The man who approached my son, who terrified him. And Matt's there, too. Something happened to him. He's in trouble.

I look at the streets, the pattern of them. I find the one outside my old apartment, the one where we met, just inside the red lines. How has it come to this? Who would have ever thought, a decade ago, that we'd one day be here, blackmailed by the Russians, on the verge of losing everything?

I walk into the kitchen, set the map down on the counter. Turn on the coffee maker, listen to the rush of the water heating, the squeal of the coffee brewing. I reach into the cabinet for a mug and see the tumbler. I hesitate, ever so slightly, and then I close the door.

Coffee poured and mug in hand, I turn back to the counter, look at the map once again. I walked those streets, long ago. Matt and I both did. He's there, somewhere. I just have no idea how to find him.

I have no idea what to do.

I drain the last of my coffee and set the mug in the sink. Then I grab the baby monitor from the counter, take it with me upstairs, set it on the bathroom counter. I get in the shower, close my eyes, and let the hot water beat down on me, the steam rise around me, until the air is so thick and hot I can barely see, barely breathe.

“NO ONE IS TO PICK UP
my kids except our emergency contacts,” I say to the day care director early the next morning. Ella's little hand is clasped tight in mine, enough that she complained as we hurried in from the parking lot. My other hand is holding Luke's.
I can wait in the car,
he muttered, but I wasn't going to hear it. Not this morning. “That's my parents, and my neighbor Jane.”

Her gaze shifts from the bags under my eyes down to my left hand. “If it's a custody issue, we'll need a court—”

“My husband and me and our emergency contacts,” I say, gripping the kids' hands even tighter. “Check IDs, if anyone comes. And call me immediately.” I write down the burner phone number, then give her my iciest look.
“No one else.”

I drive Luke to school, and he's sullen, because he wants to take the bus. I peer along the length of the fence, down the tree-lined street, then hurry him into the building, my arm around his shoulder. When we're at his classroom door, I bend down so that we're face-to-face. “If you see him again, call me right away,” I say. I press a slip of paper into his hand, the number of the burner phone. I see a flash of worry, and in that instant he's years younger, my baby again, and I can't protect him. Hopelessness fills me as I watch him open the door to his room.

When the door's shut behind him, I find my way to the principal's office. I tell him that Luke was approached by a stranger on school grounds, and I use every shred of anger and indignation I can muster. He's used to it from the other parents here, I'm sure. His eyes widen and the color drains from his face, and he's quick to pledge more security along the perimeter of the school, and on Luke himself.

I join the morning traffic, begin the usual commute, the mindless crawl toward the city. And I hate it, because I should be with the kids. But I can't keep them huddled in the house with me forever, and I can't be at school and day care and work at the same time.

The car inches forward, ever closer to an exit sign. It's the one I used to take to get to my old apartment, the one that leads into the northwest section of the city. I stare at the turnoff, the lane that's clear. And when I'm close enough, I turn the wheel and accelerate. Yury's there, somewhere. Matt is, too.

The exit leads onto streets that are so familiar. I wind through them, picturing the red-bordered box in my mind, navigating until I'm inside it. My eyes are scanning the roads, looking for Matt's car, and Yury's. Picking out each and every black sedan, checking the tags. None are a match.

I finally parallel park on a quiet street and start walking. My bag's slung over my shoulder, the gun tucked in a zippered makeup case at the bottom. The morning is warm already. Pleasant. The kind of morning we'd have ventured out in when we lived in this part of the city, walked to get coffee or breakfast, that little diner on the corner we liked.

Memories come flooding back, Matt and me in those early days, those blissfully happy, uncomplicated days. I walk past my old apartment building, stop in the same part of the street where I bumped into him, all those years ago. I picture carrying that box, the collision. I can almost see the coffee stains on the concrete, the smile he flashed at me. Would I change the past, if I could? Make it so I'd never met him? My heart feels like it's squeezed tight. I give my head a shake, keep walking.

I reach the corner where I stood when I saw him next. The bookstore is long since shuttered, a clothing boutique in its place now. Still, I stare at it, imagine it's the bookstore again, that he's out front, book in hand. The feelings that coursed through me, excitement and relief. Now it's sadness, just sadness.

And the coffee shop, the one where we sat at the table in the back, talked until our coffee grew cold. The Italian restaurant, now a kebab place, where we had our first meal. It's like I'm wandering through my life, and it's a strange sensation, because they're the moments that defined me, that brought me to where I am today, and none of them were real.

And then I see the bank up ahead, the one on the corner with the domed roof. There's a heaviness in my chest as I look at it, the dome glinting in the sun. I never gave the place a second glance, never had any idea Matt was coming here regularly, meeting with the very person I was working day in and day out to find, while the kids sat in day care.

I walk over, find the little courtyard around the side, a grassy square, trees and manicured flower beds and two benches, dark wood and wrought iron. I look at the one on the right, the one that faces the door. I try to picture Matt sitting there. Yury doing the same.

I sit down on it and look around, see what Matt must have seen, what Yury would have seen, too. The courtyard's empty, quiet. I'm suddenly so conscious of the underside of the bench, the place where Yury left Matt the flash drive. I reach my hand under and feel around, but there's nothing there.

I scoot down to the other end of the bench, feel around underneath. Still nothing. I bring my hand back up, slowly, clasp it in my lap with the other. I blink into the emptiness, feeling numb. It's not like I thought I'd find anything, did I? Matt and Yury are together.

It's just that I don't know what else to do. I have absolutely no idea how to find Yury, how to find Matt, how to make everything okay.

I PULL INTO THE PARKING LOT
at day care at five, the height of the pickup rush hour. The lot's crowded, cars extending all the way into the third row, the one that's usually empty. I see a minivan pulling out of the middle row, and I wait as it backs up, slowly, timidly, then drives off. I pull into the space and park.

I'm just getting out of the car when I see him. At the far end of the lot, in the farthest row. His car's backed in, and he's leaning against the hood, arms across his chest, looking right at me. Yury.

I'm rooted in place. Terror creeps into my heart. Him, here. And what am I supposed to do, ignore him? Come back out with Ella and let him confront me then?

I force myself to move, to walk over to him. We stare at each other. He's in jeans and another button-down shirt, two buttons open at the top, no undershirt. His necklace catches the light, shiny gold. His expression is hard; none of this fake-friendly stuff anymore.

“Leave my kids out of this,” I say, with more confidence than I feel.

“I wouldn't be here if you'd just done what I asked. This would all be over.”

I glare at him. “Leave them out of it.”

“This is the last time I'm coming to see you, Vivian. The last warning.” He holds my gaze, eyes boring into mine.

I hear footsteps approaching and I turn. It's a mother I don't recognize, a toddler on one hip, a preschooler by her side, their hands clasped tightly. She's talking to the older one, not paying the slightest attention to us. They walk to the SUV a few spaces away from Yury's car. We're both silent as she loads in the kids, gets them strapped in, then gets into the car herself.

When her door closes, Yury speaks again. “Obviously the threat of jail isn't enough.” He smirks, ever so slightly, and his hand brushes across his hip, touches the holster through his shirt. “But luckily, I have four more points of leverage.”

My body goes cold.
Four
. My kids. He's threatening my kids.

The engine of the SUV starts; the sound makes me jump. I take a step closer to him. “Don't you
dare
.”

The smirk deepens. “Or what? You see, I call the shots here.” He jams a thumb into his chest, enough to make the gold pendant bounce against his skin. “Me.”

The police. I need to go to the authorities. To Omar. Forget the blackmail, forget staying out of jail. I don't care in the least what happens to me. I'd gladly spend the rest of my life behind bars right now, if it meant my kids would be safe.

“I know what you're thinking,” he says, and I blink at him, my attention drawn back, away from what I should do, back to what's right in front of me. “And the answer is no.”

I look at him, his eyes, his expression. Does he really know? Can he really know what I'm thinking?

“If you go to the authorities,” he says, and I realize that yes, yes he knows what I'm thinking, “then you'll never see Luke again.”

I'm immobile, frozen in place, as he turns around, gets into his car, the one I'd just driven all over D.C. looking for. I watch as he starts it, pulls out of the spot. There are people all around, parents walking inside, alone, returning to cars toting kids, the smallest ones on hips or in car seats, the older ones skipping along holding hands, little backpacks on their backs. I'm just standing there, staring at the car as it pulls out of the space, out of the lot, and finally turns out of sight.

Then a breath escapes me, a great choking gasp, and my legs buckle, suddenly too weak to hold me up. I reach out to the nearest car to keep from falling. Luke. My Luke. How can this be happening? My God.

I'll do it. I'll do what he says. I picture the flash drive, inserting it into the computer, letting the Russians in, being responsible for the lives lost, those nameless, faceless individuals whose information makes it into the reports I read, I rely on. At least it's not Luke. I picture his smile, his laugh, his innocence. At least it wouldn't be my baby.

Not right now, anyway.

I feel like all the air in my lungs is gone, again.

Because it
would
be my baby, eventually. One of them. It wouldn't be over. He'd know that all he had to do is threaten my kids, and I'd do whatever he wanted. It would only be a matter of time before he'd threaten them again.

I make my feet move. I don't know how I do it, because they might as well be lead. My insides are coiled tight. Everything seems unreal and yet so, so real. I see the front door of the school, but my path's not taking me that way. It's taking me to my car.

I get in and fasten my seatbelt, hands shaking. Then I pull out and away, faster than I should. I turn the way he turned, one hand on the wheel, the other reaching into my bag, pulling out the burner phone. I fumble with it, punch in numbers I know by heart, hold it to my ear.

“Mom?” I say when she answers. I hear Luke in the background, talking with my dad, and relief floods through me, knowing that he's home safe. “Could you pick up Ella from school?”

WE STOOD IN THE FARTHEST LANE
of the shooting range. I watched Matt load one of the rented pistols, his motions fluid. Shots reverberated around me, loud even through the ear protection I wore.