Page 17 of Brutal Secrets
“Why are you so hard on yourself? You’re a good guy.” She takes a sip of coffee.
“I’m about as far from a good guy as you can get.” I sink into the chair opposite her.
“Well, you’ve been good to me.” She reaches toward me, and I clasp her fingers. Her delicate hand with its gold-tipped nails appears so small in my huge, calloused paw. I could break her without even meaning to.
I squeeze her fingers. “People who love me get killed. I’m bad luck.”
Throwing back the last of her coffee, she walks toward me and stands between my legs. For someone so small, her hands grip my shoulders with surprising force.
“Listen to me, Vadim. I don’t know you, but I know enough. Maybe I see something you don’t often show people. You aren’t planning to hack me apart with an axe in the woods, are you?” She glances around the kitchen before smiling down at me. “Should I be worried? Is there something you’re not telling me?”
“There are lots of things I’m not telling you.” I grin sheepishly at her, and to my surprise, she laughs.
Chapter Twelve
The entryway is a tangle of shoes and dust jackets as Vadim kneels in front of me and sifts through the pile of odd shoes. He pulls out a pair of battered gray furry things that look like a cross between a Christmas stocking and a ski boot without a sole.
He hands them to me, and I finger the strange texture. “What are these? Fairy tale boots made of reindeer hair?”
“Nope, valenki. Russian snow boots.”
“But they’re not waterproof, are they? Are they made of wool?” I turn them upside down. The bottom is made of hair too.
“Nope, they’re something better. They’re cold-proof. Put them on. If your feet get wet with the snow, they will hold in the heat.” He crouches beneath me, slipping my feet—which are already wrapped in two pairs of his giant socks—into the shoes. It’s another tender gesture from a man who keeps telling me I shouldn’t believe in his goodness.
A lock of hair slides over his eyes. I want to brush it away, but he stands and wipes his hands on his trousers before I pluck up the courage to touch him. He pulls me to my feet and holds up an old black jacket. It’s huge and I’m awash in fabric, but it’s warm. I pull it closed and jam an old beanie on my head.
“You said women don’t come here, but these shoes look too small for you or your friend.” I can’t help my curiosity.
“Women don’t. No one’s been here with us since Sasha’s sister, Polina.” He opens the door and walks into the snow, head down and shoulders hunched.
The light is fading now, and the trees stand like sentinels. The energy between us ebbs again as he withdraws into himself, marching into the woods without me.
I trail behind him. My feet crunch in the snow, leaving small indentations that walk alongside his giant footprints as he strides through the trees. “Did Polina grow out of snowball fights and fun in the woods?”
“She died,” he says without turning around.
He continues deeper into the woods, the eerie white light reflecting off the birch branches around him. I watch his back as he moves through the trees. There’s something he’s not telling me, but I don’t have the courage to ask. If we’re only together for now, I don’t have the right.
The snow is deep and it’s hard to keep pace with his long strides as I start after him. “Wait for me. I don’t want to get lost,” I call as he disappears between the trunks.
The woods are a silent etching in monochrome, the image stark against the fading afternoon sunlight. Even the trees are black-and-white.
He turns and stands under a spindly birch tree, watching me with a shuttered face. I catch up and reach out to touch him, but I drop my arm in mid-air. The snow wraps us in silence. Even the animals are hiding, and the cold has silenced the birds. There’s no sound but our awkward breathing.
Vadim reaches for my hand, which hangs limply at my side. “I’m sorry. Let’s catch the last of the light. I’ll take you to the river, and then I’ve lit the banya so we can warm up.”
“The banya?”
“Another new Russian word. It’s a sauna.” He points back at a small pine shed nestling against the eaves of the house. It’s the first time I’ve seen the house in daylight. The wooden slats are painted a pale green, and the eaves are edged in scalloped white boards. It looks like a place Hansel and Gretel or Snow White might have lived in—a fairy tale cottage in the woods.
“Where did you learn such good English?” I ask, trying to lighten the mood.
“Disney movies.”
“Really?” I breathe in disbelief.
“Nope, not really. Summers in Brighton Beach.” He takes my hand and leads me into the trees, the snow crunching underneath our feet. He drops it again as he shoves his hands into his pockets.