Vanish

They climb into the car and drive away.

For a long time, we do not move. The moonlight shines down with icy radiance. The night is so still I can hear the rush of my own pulse, the chatter of my teeth. At last, Olena stirs.

“No,” I whisper. “What if they’re still out there? What if they’re watching?”

“We can’t stay on the roof all night. We’ll freeze.”

“Wait just a little longer. Olena, please!”

But she is already easing her way down the shingles, moving back toward the attic window. I’m terrified of being left behind; I have no choice but to follow her. By the time I crawl back inside, she is already through the trap door and climbing down the ladder.

I want to scream: Please wait for me! but I’m too afraid to make a sound. I scramble down the ladder, too, and follow Olena into the hallway.

She has come to a standstill at the top of the stairs, gazing downward. Only when I move beside her do I see what has made her freeze in horror.

Katya lies dead on the stairs. Her blood has streamed down the steps like a dark waterfall, and she is a swimmer, diving toward the glistening pool at the bottom.

“Don’t look in the bedroom,” Olena says. “They are all dead.” Her voice is flat. Not human, but a machine’s, cold and matter-of-fact. I do not know this Olena, and she scares me. She moves down the stairs, avoiding the blood, avoiding the body. As I follow her, I cannot stop staring at Katya. I see where the bullet has torn through the back of her T-shirt, the same shirt she wears every night. It has yellow daisies and the words BE HAPPY. Oh Katya, I think; now you will never be happy. At the bottom of the stairs, where a pool of blood has collected, I see the imprints of large shoes that have tracked through it on their way to the front door.

Only then do I notice that the door is ajar.

I think: Run! Out of the house and down the porch steps, into the woods. This is our escape, this is our chance at freedom.

But Olena does not immediately flee the house. Instead she circles right, into the dining room.

“Where are you going?” I whisper.

She does not answer me, but continues into the kitchen.

“Olena!” I plead, trailing after her. “Let’s go now, before-” I stop in the doorway and clap my hand over my mouth, because I think I am going to throw up. There are splatters of blood on the walls, on the refrigerator. The Mother’s blood. She sits at the kitchen table, and the bloody remnants of her hands are stretched out before her. Her eyes are open, and for a moment, I think that maybe she can see us, but of course she cannot.

Olena moves past her, through the kitchen, to the back bedroom.

So desperate am I to escape that I think I should just leave now, without Olena. Leave her to whatever insane reason keeps her in this house. But she is moving with such purpose that I follow her to the Mother’s bedroom, which has always before been locked.

This is the first time I have ever seen the room, and I gape at the large bed with satin sheets, at a dresser that has a lace runner and a row of silver hairbrushes. Olena goes straight to the dresser, yanks open drawers, and rifles through the contents.

“What are you looking for?” I ask.

“We need money. We can’t survive out there without it. She must keep it here somewhere.” She pulls out a woolen hat from the drawer and tosses it to me. “Here. You’ll need warm clothes.”

I’m loath to even touch the hat, because it was the Mother’s, and I can see her ugly brown hairs still clinging to the wool.

Olena whisks across to the nightstand, pulls open the drawer, and finds a cell phone and a small wad of cash. “This can’t be everything,” she says. “There has to be more.”

I only want to flee, but I know she’s right; we need money. I cross to the closet, which hangs open; the killers have searched it, and several hangers have been knocked to the floor. But they were hunting for frightened girls, not money, and the shelf above has not been disturbed. I pull down a shoe box, and old photographs spill out. I see pictures of Moscow and smiling faces and a young woman whose eyes are disconcertingly familiar. And I think: Even the Mother was young once. Here is the proof.

I pull down a large tote bag. Inside is a heavy jewelry pouch and a videotape and a dozen passports. And money. A thick bundle of American cash, tied with a rubber band.

“Olena! I found it.”

She crosses to me and glances in the bag. “Take it all,” she says. “We’ll go through the bag later.” She throws in the cell phone as well. Then she snatches a sweater from the closet and thrusts it at me.

I don’t want to put on the Mother’s clothes; I can smell her scent on them, like sour yeast. I pull them on anyway, quelling my disgust. A turtleneck, a sweater, and a scarf all layered over my own blouse. We dress quickly and in silence, donning the clothes of the woman who sits dead in the next room.

At the front door we hesitate, staring out at the woods. Are the men waiting for us? Sitting in their dark car farther down the road, knowing that eventually we will show ourselves?

“Not that way,” Olena says, reading my thoughts. “Not the road.”

We slip out, circle around to the rear of the house, and plunge into the woods.

EIGHTEEN

Gabriel charged into the throng of reporters, his gaze fixed on the well-coiffed blond woman who was the focus of klieg lights twenty yards away. As he pushed closer, he saw that Zoe Fossey was, at that moment, talking into the camera. She spotted him and she froze, clutching the microphone to her silent lips.

“Turn it off,” said Gabriel.

“Quiet,” said the cameraman. “We’re live-”

“Turn off the fucking microphone!”

“Hey! What the hell do you think you’re-”

Gabriel shoved the camera aside and yanked on electrical cords, killing the klieg lights.

“Get this man out of here!” Zoe yelled.

“Do you know what you’ve done?” Gabriel said. “Do you have any idea?”

“I’m doing my job,” she retorted.

He advanced on her, and something she saw in his eyes made her shrink away, until she bumped up against a news van and could back away no farther.

“You may have just executed my wife.”

“Me?” She shook her head, and said with a note of defiance: “I’m not the one holding the gun.”

“You just told them she’s a cop.”

“I only report the facts.”

“Whatever the consequences?”

“It’s news, isn’t it?”

“You know what you are?” He moved closer, and found he could barely control the urge to throttle her. “You’re a whore. No, I take that back. You’re worse than a whore. You don’t just sell out