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My thigh objects. My abdomen joins it. The chest-drain tubing tugs beneath my shirt, and the portable chamber secured at my side bumps my hip when I straighten.
Abramov reaches for my arm.
“Touch me, and I’ll demote you.”
He removes his hand. “Suit yourself.”
The elevator is slower than I like, so we take it anyway. The alternative is leaking blood into a shirt that doesn’t belong to me.
The corridor outside Vera’s apartment is silent. Abramov signals that the nearest landing is clear.
I knock once.
Movement comes from inside, quick and quiet. Metal touches wood near the lock.
A child whispers something I can’t make out.
I knock again. “Dr. Markova.”
The door opens three inches and stops against the security chain.
Vera stands behind it in dark trousers and a gray sweater, caught somewhere between surprise and anger. One hand rests behind her thigh. The angle of her wrist tells me she’s holding a knife.
Her gaze moves over the bandage beneath my collar, the stiffness in my posture, and the armed men behind me.
“Is this a joke?”
A memory returns. Her mouth at the gala. Her hand on my chest in the hotel bed.
“Do I look amused?” I ask. Remembering her now is an inconvenience I don’t need.
“You look pleased with yourself,” she says, looking me over without moving an inch from the doorway.
Abramov huffs beside me, clearly annoyed with all the pleasantries.
“Pleased is generous. Upright is already ambitious,” I say.
When she starts to close the door, I set my right foot across the threshold.
Her eyes drop to it.
“And, Dr. Markova, since I’m here, we should discuss your bedside manner.”
“That applies when you’re in a bed, not when you leave intensive care dressed for a funeral.”
I tug lightly at the front of the shirt and inspect it. “It was the only clean one available.”
“It isn’t going to stay clean.”
Warmth spreads beneath the dressing at my ribs, proving her point. I ignore it.
“Open the door.”
“No.”
“Belov’s men may already be inside the building.”
Her humor disappears. “How do you know Belov is involved?”
