Page 46 of Emerald Vices

I’m shaking all over. “Do I have to try again?”

The gun disappears into the holster at his hip. “I think that’s enough for today. We’ll try again tomorrow. If you’re up for it.”

That sounds good to me. I’m much more interested in the second homework assignment Evangeline gave me, anyway.

But when I arrive outside Misha’s door to get started on “feeding my soul” with things I love, like family time and playing piano, the deep timbre of Andrey’s voice is unmistakable. I can’t help but lean in and eavesdrop.

“… some real progress here. You should be proud.”

“I got five answers wrong,” Misha argues.

“And last time, that number was eight. You’re improving.”

“Barely,” Misha mutters.

“Progress is progress, no matter how slow.”

I take that little piece of advice and stow it away in my heart. I touched a gun for half a second and almost had a heart attack, but that’s still progress.

“I hate math.”

“You only hate it because it’s hard for you to grasp. And now that we know why, we have ways of counteracting it.”

I had no idea Andrey was helping Misha with his homework. Be still, my heart.

“There’s no way to counteract dyslexia,” Misha complains. “I just have to deal with being stupid.”

I also had no idea Misha had dyslexia. Since when?

I have half a mind to bust through the door and reveal myself as a snoop just so I can tell Misha he is absolutely not stupid. But Andrey beats me to the punch.

“You’re not stupid, Misha,” he insists calmly. “You just learn differently. And between Mr. Akayev and I, we can help you. I’ll bet Natalia could help you, too, if?—”

“No!” Misha interrupts, making me flinch. “No, I don’t want Natalia to know.”

“You don’t have a damn thing to be ashamed of, Misha.”

In the space of a single, stolen conversation, I’ve gone from wanting to avoid Andrey to wanting to jump his bones. Maybe it’s a simple case of being on the same page for once.

“I’m not ashamed. I just don’t want her to know, okay?”

Andrey sighs. “If you insist.”

I hear the scraping of chairs before Misha speaks up again. “Is she talking to you yet?”

I’m expecting a generic, evasive answer. The kind of answer you give your kids so they don’t worry. Everything’s fine. We’re doing good. There’s nothing to worry about.

“She’s unhappy with me, and I can’t exactly blame her. But… I don’t know how to reach her.”

“But you want to?”

Is that hope I hear in Misha’s voice?

“I do. She’s important to me.”

My heart leaps the way it did when I saw the gun earlier. Like, somehow, these words are just as dangerous. Don’t fall for it. You’ll only end up hurt.

“Because of the babies?” Misha asks.

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