Page 71 of Nineteen Seventy-Six

“I’m not keen on being compared to the regime that kept me from bringing you and your family here, all the while starving them near to death.”

Aleksei’s smile faded. “There are a lot of ears in New York, Augustus. We are all comrades.”

“You can continue to live in whatever illusion you like,” Augustus replied. “I did everything I could for Ekatherina’s family. Everything in my power and then some.”

“They know. I know. Yet that isn’t how this world works, and we both know that.”

“I know that now. I didn’t know when I married her, or I wouldn’t have made such promises…”

“She knew. She blamed you because…” Aleksandr. “I get ahead of myself. How was your trip here? Was the train comfortable enough?”

“The trip was fine. But again, this isn’t what we’re here to discuss, is it?”

Aleksei accepted his drink from the waiter, and Augustus did the same.

“No. It isn’t.”

Evangeline and Cassie huddled around the fireplace in near darkness. The police orders were clear: bolt the doors, kill the lights. With the curtains drawn, a thin line of moonlight spilled across the floor, offering the only relief from the blindness.

Cambridge winters were not like New Orleans winters. Back home, they still, on some days, wore shorts and sandals in December. But here, even a few minutes without heat was unbearable. With the fireplace off-limits, due to the light it would bring, they put all their hope in the space heater that worked only after about thirty seconds of physical assault. They took turns trying to mask the sound of banging, their fear and cold fighting for dominance.

Evangeline pulled all the blankets off their beds, and they created a nest, but it didn’t stop their breaths from swirling in the dark air, reminding them that, until this was over, they were prisoners.

“Do you think we’ll be able to fly home tomorrow?” Cassie whispered.

“I don’t know,” Evangeline said, voice so low she couldn’t hear her own words. “I wish they’d tell us something. Anything at all.”

“If he’s out there, he’s scared.”

“Scared? The killer?” Evangeline would laugh if she wasn’t so cold.

“It’s a good thing,” Cassie reassured her. “He’s never been scared before. He couldn’t do what he does if fear had ever guided him.”

“Because he’s a psychopath,” Evangeline said.

“Yes,” Cassie said carefully. “Though not all psychopaths seek to hurt others. Not all of them become killers. Thankfully, only a few of them do.”

“You know a lot about this for a chick from small town Oregon.”

Cassie smiled. She exhaled. “I’ve been thinking a lot, Evie. About us, about who we are, what we’ve been through, how it’s shaped us. I feel safer with guns in our house, and knowing how to fight, but I don’t feel better.”

Evangeline fumbled under the couch for the bottle of whiskey that had rolled there a week or so ago. She’d forgotten it until now. She uncapped it and took a swig, passing it to her friend. “What do you mean?”

“Safety is a physical thing. But what about the psychological effect? Am I fixed?” Cassie took her sip and passed the bottle back. “No, I’m not. My body is safe, and my mind is stuck in a prison I can’t break out of.”

Evangeline was glad, for the first time that night, for the privacy the darkness afforded. Even with Cassie, whom she trusted implicitly, she didn’t want to share the full extent of her helplessness. She wished Cassie hadn’t said this, because, now, the thought burrowed inside of Evangeline and took root.

My body is safe, and my mind is stuck in a prison I can’t break out of.

Knowing how to shoot felt good. The raw power of steel and gunpowder, ricocheting from her near-perfect aim, was real and tangible. But a gun protected her from the future, not the past. Knowing how to pick, punch, and pin increased her chances of survival from something not-yet-transpired; it didn’t erase the trauma that took root and became part of Evangeline, before she could stop it.

“Evie?”

“Yeah, I’m here.”

“I struck a nerve, didn’t I?”

“It’s fine.”

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