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Sergei makes a small sound that might be a cough.

I ignore him. “Where are you?”

“At Lily’s birthday party.”

“I need the address.”

“Oh.” That small, guilty sound tells me she has only just realized that in addition to everything else, she has forced me to ask for the location of my own child.

“Elara,” I say.

“Yes. Sorry. It’s the Harrington townhouse on West Seventy-Fourth, number eighteen. I think. Wait—Irina, what’s the exact address?”

In the background, Irina says something vicious in Russian.

Elara sighs. “English would be ideal right now.”

Irina snaps, “Eighteen West Seventy-Fourth.”

I repeat the address to the driver. He nods once and presses harder on the accelerator.

“Fast,” I tell him.

“Yes, sir.”

Then I return to Elara. “Where is Anya?”

“Inside, with Lily.”

My hand tightens around the phone. “Is it safe?”

“Yeah, I’m not stupid. I brought your tallest man to the party. Dude’s built like a bridge; I’m sure we’ll be fine. You don’t even have to come here,” she says. I touch the bridge of my nose. She has no idea that we’re investigating Kirill. And how would she? I never told her.

“I know you’re angry.”

“You think this is anger?”

“I think this is the part where your voice gets calm and everyone else starts reconsidering their life choices.”

Sergei turns toward the window again. This time, I hear him breathe out.

“Do you find this amusing?” I ask him.

“No.”

“You’re lying.”

“Yes.”

Elara hears that, because of course she does, and despite everything, despite the fact that I am close to tearing apart the next person who speaks carelessly, she laughs once under her breath.

“This is not funny,” I say.

“I know. I’m not laughing because it’s funny. I’m laughing because I’m very aware that I may not survive the next hour.”

“You should have considered that earlier.”

“I did, actually.”