“A mother is a mother,” Mikhail insisted. “She would know where her daughter is.”
“We can take her,” Misha suggested. “On her way to the hospital. We can … persuade her to tell us where the girl is.”
“If the mother is a mother, she will not tell.” Sergei began arranging burgers on another platter. “She will die before. If she is not such a mother, and my information is she is not, she may not know. We take her, they move the girl, add more guards. So, we watch the mother who is not such a mother.”
“In the house,” the brigadier said, “there’s nothing of the daughter’s outside the bedroom. And there’s not much there. What is, is boxed. Like storage.”
“So you see.” Sergei nodded. “I have a different way, one that ends this and leaves nothing of us behind. Tell Yakov to be patient a little longer, Misha. The next time we have a party, it will be to celebrate his return. But now”—he lifted the platter, stacked with burgers and dogs—“we eat.”
When the summer dragged on, Elizabeth reminded herself that if she were home, she would have given in —most likely—and would be enduring the summer program at the hospital. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have done anything all that different from what she did now.
Study, read. Except now she listened to music, watched movies on DVD or television. Through summer reruns of
When she was able to go back to college, she might know more of the language, might fit in better.
To continue her quest for security, she went to the practice range. She’d learned self-defense and poker.
Nothing could bring Julie back, and playing what-if was a useless process. It made more sense to look at the advantages of her summer confinement.
She would never be a surgeon.
At some point, she’d take on a new identity, a new life, and find some way to make the best of it. She could study whatever she wanted. She had a feeling joining the FBI was no longer an option, but she didn’t ask. It might have been foolish, but not knowing a definitive answer left a sliver of hope.
She embraced the routine, grew comfortable with it.
Her birthday didn’t change routine. It just meant that today she was seventeen. She didn’t feel any different, or look any different. This year there would be no birthday dinner—prime rib with roasted vegetables followed by carrot cake—or any possibility of the car her mother had promised. Contingent on her academic achievements and deportment, of course.
It was just another day, one day closer to her court appearance and what she thought of as freedom.
As neither Terry nor John mentioned her birthday, she assumed they’d forgotten. After all, why should they remember? She gave herself the gift of a day off from studying, and decided she’d make a special dinner—
It rained, drenching and thunderous. She told herself it made the kitchen only homier. She considered baking a cake, but that seemed self-serving. And she hadn’t yet tried her hand at real baking. Preparing spaghetti and meatballs from scratch seemed challenging enough.
“God, that smells fabulous.” Terry paused in the center of the kitchen, inhaled deeply. “You almost make me think about learning how to make something besides mac and cheese.”
“I like doing it, especially when it’s something new. I’ve never made meatballs. They were fun.”
“We all have our own fun.”
“I can put some of the sauce and meatballs in a container for you to take home. You’d just have to add the pasta. I made a lot.”
“Well, Lynda called in sick, so you’ll have Bill and Steve Keegan. I bet they can pack it away.”
“Oh. I’m sorry Lynda’s not well.” Routine, Elizabeth thought. It always gave her a jolt when it changed on her. “Do you know Marshal Keegan?”
“Not really. John knows him a little. He’s got five years in, Liz. Don’t worry.”
“No, I won’t. It just takes me a little time to get used to new people, I guess. It doesn’t matter. I’m going to read after dinner, and probably go to bed early.”
“On your birthday?”
“Oh.” Elizabeth flushed a little. “I wasn’t sure you knew.”
“You have no secrets here.” On a laugh, Terry moved over to take another sniff of the sauce. “I get you like to read, but can’t you come up with anything more fun on your birthday?”
“Not really.”
“Then you need some help.” She gave Elizabeth a pat on the shoulder before she walked out.
Reading was fun, Elizabeth reminded herself. She checked the time, noting that the change of shift was coming up soon. The sauce could simmer until Bill and this new deputy wanted to eat, but she really had made a lot, so she’d put some in containers for John and Terry.
Like a reverse birthday gift, she decided.
“Help’s arrived.”
Elizabeth turned from reaching high into a cupboard for lidded containers.
Terry stood grinning with a box wrapped in shiny pink paper with a big white bow trailing ribbons. Beside her, John held a small gift bag and a white bakery box.
“You … you got me gifts.”
“Of course we got you gifts. It’s your birthday. And we got cake.”
“Cake.”
John set the box down on the table, flipped up the lid. “Double-chocolate fudge with buttercream icing.”
“My pick,” Terry informed her. “Happy birthday, Liz.”
“Thank you.” The cake said the same, in fancy pink piping. It had rosebuds and pale green leaves.
“It’s not carrot cake,” she murmured.
“I have a religious objection to any pastry made from a vegetable,” Terry told her.
“It’s very good, really. But this looks much better. This looks … like a real birthday cake. It’s beautiful.”
“We’ll have to save room for it
Everything went bright, as if the sun burst through the pounding rain. “You’re going to stay.”
“I repeat, it’s your birthday. No way I’m missing out on ice cream and cake. We’ll wait for the others for eats, but I think you should open your gifts now.”
“Really? It’s all right?”
“Obviously, the genius doesn’t comprehend the power of birthday. Here.” Terry pushed the box into Elizabeth’s hands. “Open mine. I’m dying to see if you like it.”
“I like it already.” And she began to carefully slit the tape.
“I knew it. She’s one of those. One of those,” Terry explained, “who takes ten minutes to open a gift instead of ripping away.”
“The paper’s so pretty. I didn’t expect anything.”
“You should,” John told her. “You should start expecting.”
“It’s the best surprise.” After folding the paper, Elizabeth lifted the lid. She lifted out the thin cardigan with ruffles flowing down the front and tiny violets scattered over the material.
“It’s beautiful. Oh, there’s a camisole with it.”
“That’s not your mother’s twin set,” Terry declared. “You can wear it with jeans, or dress it up with a skirt. It looked like you.”
No one had ever told her she looked like ruffles and violets. “I love it. I really love it. Thank you so much.”
“My turn. I had a little help picking these out. So if you don’t like them, blame my wife.”
“She helped you? That was so nice of her. You have to thank her for me.”
“Maybe you should see what it is first.”
Flustered, thrilled, Elizabeth dug into the tissue paper for the little box. The earrings were a trio of thin silver
