Page 89 of Savage Lies
The kitchen where I supposedly made breakfast as his wife. The living room where we watched movies together. The bedroom where we made love. Something about this place feels wrong in a way I can't articulate.
Like I'm an actor returning to a set where I never learned my lines.
“I need some coffee.” I head toward the kitchen to give myself space to think.
“I’ll make it. You should rest after the drive.”
“I’m fine.” But even as I say it, my hands shake as I reach for the coffee maker. “Just need a minute to settle in.”
Dmitri studies my face. “Are you sure you’re alright? You’ve been quiet since we left the estate.”
“I’m just working through the change of scenery.”
“Maybe you should call Dr. Sokolova,” Dmitri suggests. “The stress of traveling might have triggered something.”
I scrunch my nose and ask, “Why would I need to call her?”
“Because you’re acting like someone who’s remembered something they wish they hadn’t.”
The observation is too accurate for comfort. I focus on measuring coffee grounds to avoid looking at him.
“I haven’t remembered anything specific. Just… impressions.”
“What kind of impressions?”
Before I can answer, his phone rings with a tone I recognize as one of his business associates. He glances at the screen and frowns.
“I need to take this. Viktor’s been calling all morning.”
Viktor. Another name that makes my stomach clench with unidentified dread.
“Take your call. I’ll be fine.”
Dmitri retreats to his office, and I hear him speaking in rapid Russian with someone who’s agitated about something. While he’s distracted, I move through the apartment with growing unease.
The photos that are supposed to prove our marriage look staged. I pick up one of the framed pictures that shows me at a gallery opening.
The woman in the photo is wearing an elegant black dress, and she’s smiling at the camera, but something about her posture bothers me.
She’s standing like someone aware of being watched, not like someone enjoying a social event.
“Target assessed,” I whisper before I can stop myself.
Where the hell did that come from?
I set the photograph down and move to the window that overlooks the city. Moscow spreads out below me, and suddenly, I’m not seeing it as a tourist or even as a resident. I’m seeing it as an operational environment.
Sight lines. Escape routes. Surveillance positions.
“FSB Domestic Operations Center. Forty degrees northeast.” I murmur, pointing toward a building I somehow know contains classified government operations.
The knowledge exists in my brain without explanation, like someone uploaded a tactical database directly into my subconscious.
I know where the major intelligence facilities are located. I know which streets provide the best surveillance positions. I knowhow to navigate this city like someone who’s been trained to operate here.
Art curators don’t have that kind of knowledge.
But intelligence operatives do.
