Page 48 of SINS & Riley
She scrapes noodles into a casserole dish and slides it into the oven with a clatter. “Like a mafia capo.” She shakes her head and sips her tea. “If it weren’t for Zver?—”
“Babushka.” Dominic’s voice cuts sharp from the doorway. “No need to bore Riley with indulgent stories.”
“Please bore me,” I beg. I’m dying to know why Zver gets to play hero in her story. I can’t imagine him playing one in mine.
But it’s no use. Her warmth shuts down in an instant.
I move to the window, and glance across the grounds. The view spills wide with endless lawns, roses bleeding against the green, the forest clawing at the edges. Broody guards pacing along, here and there.
By now the yard should be alive with activity and shrieks and two little kids darting about like sparks.
But it’s empty.
“Lunch is almost ready,” Babushka says, checking the oven.
Dominic frowns at his phone, thumb pausing over a text. “I’ll get the kids in a minute.”
“I’ll go,” I cut in, too restless to sit still. “Where are they?”
Babushka waves a hand, unfazed. “Probably where they shouldn’t be.”
Just like me and Kennedy.
The air cools the second I step into the hall. The place is obnoxiously big and quiet, all echoing marble in a black-and-white checkerboard floor. It makes me wish I’d been kidnapped with rollerblades.
I glance through several rooms down the hall.
Empty.
I hike the stairs, two at a time, up to their rooms. Two bedrooms, side by side.
The first one is all princess pink and fairy sparkles. Castles painted against an evening sky, fairy lights dripping like stars from the ceiling. Katya’s room is the happiest place on earth, bottled into four walls.
Misha’s hideaway runs wild. Animal-print bedding underfoot, each wall a different theme: Arctic north, safari south, African wilderness east, Amazon jungle west.
And both rooms hold twin beds. Because as much as the kids bicker, they won’t be separated at night.
It’s me and Kennedy at their age, and it makes me miss her all the more.
Except we were probably fighting over a sleeping bag, not feather-down mattresses and million count sheets.
Katya and Misha have everything.
Everything except a trip to a bookshop.
Until today, apparently.
I glance into the playroom and stop cold.
Books.
Not a pile. Not a stack.
Wall to freaking wall.
Every children’s book imaginable is lined up on neat little shelves— from Dr. Seuss to Harry Potter.
A café on one side, a French bakery on the other. Tiny counters stacked with fake muffins, plush croissants, plastic teacups and menus. The place is perfect down to the powdered sugar dusting the toy donuts.
