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My fingers dig into my forearm as I remember the women gathered around Misha. Alexei believes that was part of Belov’s message. The boy wasn’t merely inside the Volkov estate. He was surrounded by the women closest to the Volkov leadership.

Since the photograph arrived, Alexei checks every room carefully before he enters. His eyes pass over the doors, windows, ceiling fixtures, and every person inside before he takes another step.

Misha looks up. “Papa, tell Mama we stay.”

Alexei looks at him, and his eyes soften for a second. “The west wing is secure again.”

“I like it here.” Misha pushes out his lower lip.

“We can visit.” Alexei places one hand on Misha’s shoulder, and it nearly covers the boy’s upper back.

“With Oksana?”

“With Oksana and whoever Abramov sends with you.”

My grip tightens around the handle of Misha’s suitcase. “So we can visit with half the estate following us. How relaxing.”

Alexei studies my face. “Until we know how many people Belov used and which routes they compromised, you won’t go anywhere without guards.”

“I know what the photograph showed.”

“Then why are you arguing about the escort?”

“Forget it. I’m sorry.”

“Whoever selected that photograph knew which moment would frighten us most.”

“Let it go, Alexei.”

His mouth tightens. “That’s easy for you to say.”

“I meant the courtyard.”

“Then don’t sulk.”

“Tell that to your son.”

I should’ve kept my mouth shut. Alexei can turn one irritated sentence into a full argument and keep going until breakfast tomorrow. I lift my canvas duffel, take Misha’s toy suitcase in my other hand, and head for the door.

Misha folds his arms and follows Oksana into the corridor, stamping each foot to show how badly we’ve treated him.

I can’t out-sulk a three-year-old. He has more practice.

The move back to the west wing takes less than twenty minutes. Our old suite has been cleaned, repaired, and made brighter, but I notice every place the intruders touched. The sitting-area rug is new. The broken moon-shaped light in Misha’s bedroom has been replaced with a star that resembles a strawberry. The linen closet door closes properly now.

Misha refuses to look at it.

He drives the yellow car across the couch instead.

Oksana opens the wardrobe, and Misha checks each shelf before allowing her to unpack. He puts the green dinosaur beside the pillow, moves the bear to the foot of the bed, and makes me shift the star light twice because its first position shines in his eyes.

“Courtyard room had better light,” he says.

“I heard you the first six times.”

“Seven.” He counts on his fingers. “One, two, three, five, seven.”

Alexei pauses at the doorway with his radio. “The light can be changed.”