Page 58 of Last Hand

“I—I don’t know what happened,” I stammer, playing the role of the panicked housewife. “It just—the oil caught fire, I tried to stop it?—”

Igor curses again, flicking the gas off using the switch at the wall. He shoves past me, his shoulder knocking me back a step. The contact is rough, dismissive. He’s forgotten about me already, his attention fully on the growing threat.

“Where’s the extinguisher?” he demands, moving toward the flames. His training kicks in as he grabs a lid and slams it over the frying pan, cutting off oxygen to the main oil fire. The cabinets are still burning, smoke thickening by the second.

“Pantry!” I shout, my voice hitching. “In the pantry!”

He turns toward the pantry door, his back to me. “Grab it,” he snaps, using the dish towel to beat at the smaller flames crawling up the wall.

I move quickly to the wall where the fire extinguisher hangs in its bright red case. My fingers close around its cold metal body, feeling its substantial weight. Not to save the kitchen, not to stop the fire I’ve started.

I lift the extinguisher from its bracket, adjusting my grip for what I’m about to do. Igor is still focused on the flames, cursing as he tries to contain the damage. He doesn’t see me approach. Doesn’t sense the danger behind him.

I swing. The metal canister arcs through the smoky air and connects with the side of his head with a sickening thud that I feel all the way up my arms. The impact jars my shoulders, as I hold tight to the extinguisher.

Igor drops like a stone, crumpling to the floor without a sound. Blood immediately begins to seep from his temple, trickling down to pool on the tile. For a terrifying moment, I think I’ve killed him. Then his chest rises and falls—shallow though steady.

He’s breathing, just out cold. I don’t wait to see for how long. The fire is still burning, though less intensely now with the lid on the pan. Smoke hangs in the air, thick and disorienting. The sprinklers in the ceiling finally activate when their sensors go off, raining cold water down on the kitchen, on Igor’s unconscious form, on me.

I drop the extinguisher and run. Our window is open, though I don’t know for how long.

The girls are in the small bedroom at the end of the hall with Fallon. My feet barely touch the ground as I run, each step propelled by adrenaline and years of pent-up maternal rage. The smoke alarm down this end of the house finally triggers, its shrill wail slicing through the house. Too late for warnings now.The water from the sprinklers has soaked through my clothes, leaving cold trails down my back, I barely notice with the adrenaline pumping through my system. All I can think about is getting to them, getting them out, before someone comes to check on Igor. No doubt Mikhail has had some kind of alert reach him by now, this place is a boobytrap of technology.

The hallway stretches before me, suddenly longer than I remember. Family photos line the walls—Mikhail’s twisted attempt at normalcy. Me with the twins, all of us smiling with eyes that scream for help.

I reach the door and fling it open without knocking. The latch bangs against the wall, and three pairs of eyes snap toward me.

Fallon is on her feet instantly, moving in front of the twins with fluid, protective grace. Her hand instinctively curls over her stomach, a gesture so subtle most wouldn’t notice.

“He’s out,” I blurt, my breath coming in ragged pants. Smoke drifts into the room behind me, thin tendrils of gray against the pale pink walls. “We’re leaving. Now.”

Fallon hesitates for half a breath, her eyes darting to the window, then the door. There’s a moment, just a flicker where I see the doubt cross her face. After all this time, freedom seems more dangerous than the known prison, especially knowing my girls are at stake.

She nods, decision made. “Girls,” I say, turning to the twins. “Remember our special game? The quiet one? We’re going to play it now.”

The twins, already trained to survive in this hellscape in the games I make sure to play. Anya clutches her stuffed fox, its orange fur worn bare in spots from constant handling. Mila is already crying silently, tears tracking down her round cheeks. They’re so small, so vulnerable, and yet they understand danger in ways no child should.

Together, we rush to the girls’ room across the hall. It’s decorated with unicorns and fairies, another of Mikhail’s manipulations. See what a loving father I am? Look at the beautiful room I’ve given my daughters. As if pink walls could make up for a life of horror with him.

Fallon scoops up Mila, cradling her against her chest and whispering soothing words into her dark curls. I grab Anya, her little body trembling against mine. She clings to me with one arm, the other still clutching her fox. I reach under the bed and pull out a small canvas backpack I’ve been preparing for months, adding items bit by bit so no one would notice.

“Don’t lose this,” I whisper, helping Anya slide her arm through one of the straps. “Whatever happens, Anya, you hold this bag like it’s your sister. You don’t let it go.” I adjust the bag on her back, making sure it’s secure and not too heavy for her small frame. “It’s the most important job, baby. Can you do that for Mama?”

Anya nods, eyes too wide for her tiny face. “What’s in it?” she whispers.

“Your future,” I tell her, brushing a strand of hair from her forehead. Inside that bag is everything we’ll need, fake IDs I’ve been working on for months, two burner phones I purchased through a complex chain of drop-offs and pickups, most importantly, new passports with their names changed to match my true name, a life I thought I would never get to have again, and cash.

The passports were the riskiest part in organizing. The birth certificates were easier—I simply claimed I needed them for the twins’ school registration. School that never materialized because Mikhail decided home tutoring was “safer.” I never returned the originals.

“We need to move,” Fallon says, adjusting Mila on her hip. Her voice is steady; still I can see the fear dancing behind hereyes—not for herself, it’s for her sisters she’s barely known for more than a few weeks. For the child growing inside her. “The smoke will draw attention even if no one’s found Igor yet.”

She’s right. The smoke alarm continues its piercing cry, and the sprinklers have created puddles on the hardwood floors. We need to go now, before someone from the nearby guard house comes to investigate.

I lead them down the hallway, away from the kitchen where Igor lies unconscious. The front door is too obvious—there might be guards I haven’t accounted for. Instead, we head toward the laundry room at the side of the house. Its door opens onto a small concrete pad where I hang clothes on sunny days, providing access to the tree line beyond.

“Stay close,” I whisper to Fallon. “When we get outside, move fast and quiet. The ground’s soft from yesterday’s rain, don’t slip.”

We pass the unconscious guard by the hallway. Anya whimpers at the sight of him, burying her face against my neck. I feel her tears dampen my skin, hot against the chill left by the sprinklers.

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