Mila grabs her phone and quickly flips through her contacts. It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask her what she’s doing.
“Nolan.” She sighs in relief. “I’m so glad you answered my call. I’m in my mother’s cell. She escaped.” Loud gasps and fast talking blares out through the phone. “Yes, yes. I know. Look, I have every reason to suspect that she has the Foamies. We need to be prepared for treatment when she gets to the FUC prison.”
I miss the end of the conversation, but Mila signs off and shakes her head.
“I’m guessing that was the FUC doctor?”
“Yeah, Nolan the lion. He’ll have all the necessary treatment for her when we bring her in.”
“So there’s a cure,” I assume.
“Yes, it’s different than or rabies. She needs iron-fortified blood and to be given a few antibiotics. And sooner, rather than later. She won't be getting any better. In fact, it's only going to get worse."
“The Foamies sound atrocious. They really should have picked a more threatening name for it,” I grumble as the gravity of the already intense situation sinks in.
Mila takes a deep breath, closing her eyes against the heaviness hanging in the cell.
"Are you okay?" I wonder if Mila will get sick of me checking in on her. But I can't help the concern. This is some heavy stuff. I have to commend her for being a force of absolute composure. But again, I fully reserve the right to worry about her. I can’t help it.
The color of her eyes is softened, the corners of her mouth downturned.
"I'm okay," she whispers. "I hate to admit it, but I truly appreciate how you keep checking in on me. Really. But I'm only going to be fine when we get out of here and get her back."
"That's fair. So what can we do? Logically, we should head to Lake Murray. But perhaps we should look into Oscar Trow and see if he has any properties."
As I speak, I pull out my phone and start typing away furiously as Mila packs away the series of journals kept by Markov and the stacks of letters.
"I have my best guys digging into Trow. Let's just head to Lake Murray."
Taking one last look around the small cell, Mila sighs heavily.
"When I was a kid, she baked the absolute worst sugar cookies. They were always a tiny bit burned, and the icing was always too clumpy. But she would hand me one, beaming with pride. I'd eat it because she was my mom and I loved her. It's hard to reconcile the two people she is."
As we walk back to the car, I don't say anything.
I don't know the words that could possibly make this better for Mila.
10
T-Bone
The sun is fully rising by the time we get back to the SUV. I drive the car as close to the entrance door as possible so that Mila only needs to put on sunglasses and tuck her head under her hoodie to avoid the sun's damaging rays.
In the safety of the dark vehicle, she takes a deep breath and leans her head back on the seat. Tears line her eyes, and her entire body begins to tremble. Mila shakes her head, and I get the distinct impression that she is trying to dislodge whatever emotion she's having about her mother and the state of her cell.
Seeing strong, energetic Mila so affected by this is hard. I feel bad for involving her in this mission. If I had known from the get-go that she was Sveta Markov's daughter, I like to think I wouldn’t have approached her for her help.
But that's a lie.
I would have, for the good of the case. The only reason why I'm reacting so strongly to Mila's distress is because I want to protect her from the turmoil she is living.
"Mila, it's okay." I pitch my voice low.
"No." Her voice is so small, so hurt that I just let my instincts take over.
I tug her toward me, over the center console, settling her on my lap. I wrap her up in my arms and squeeze her small, curvy form to mine.
"It makes sense to feel a whole mess of things right now," I whisper against the crown of her head. "It's all right to be torn between caring for a woman who raised you, who is sick, and the woman who did horrible things."
Mila stays very quiet, her hands pressed up against my chest. She inhales deeply, eyes closed, and a shiver runs across her body.
"After all this time, I still try to make sense of the things that she has done, you know? Some days, I hate her. Flat-out hate her for ruining our lives, for hurting people. And other days, I think that she wanted to do good but let her hubris get the better of her. On those days, it's not her that I hate." Her body begins to shake in earnest, as she has stopped breathing. A few tears escape her, making the blue of her eyes go gray. "It's me. For even thinking of sympathizing with her, even just a fraction. If she had just gone through the proper channels. Getting grants and permissions, using blood donors..."
"Mila, look at me." I hate to interrupt her, especially since it seems like she is in desperate need of talking to someone about all of this. But her breath is impossibly erratic, and I'm scared she'll have a panic attack. Her eyes settle on mine. "None of this is your fault. That includes her escape. Even if she had been evaluated by a psychiatrist, if she wanted out, she was getting out. Sveta is a very smart woman. None of this is on you," I repeat, trying to make her understand.
I let my hands roam up and down her back in a soothing motion. "There’s
