Forty-One

Mikhail

The penthouse is quiet when I arrive home. I half expect Maria to be sitting where she was that other night after the bombing, flipping through a book from the shelf, admiring the glossy photos of art from museums she would like to see.

Places all over the world, but she’s forced to stay here with me.

But she’s nowhere to be found. I make my way up the stairs to her door, my mind still seeing the reproach in her eyes earlier, the wild fear when I reached for her, and behind the fear, unmistakable revulsion.

I knock and hear only a sniffle. Gently, I open the door and find her wrapped in a robe and lying on her bed. The silly dress she wore is gone. She’s changed into her pajamas and her hair is still damp from the shower.

“Are you all right?” I ask, searching her eyes.

Maria’s face pales as she watches me walk toward the bed. Her lips part slightly, trembling as she tries to form words. She has no makeup on and her eyes are wide—the picture-perfect image of innocence and vulne