65

Camila

Bruises come in more shades than I realized.

If the purple and green hues weren’t patterned across my mother’s throat and arms, I’d find them beautiful. Instead, I’m fighting down the urge to vomit.

“He did that to you?” I ask, seething.

My mother whirls around; she didn’t know I was in the room. She was in the middle of changing clothes. Yannick told us earlier that we’d be moving locations today. I wanted to pack everything, making sure to hide my father’s rose carefully. I’ve been trying to keep it from being discovered. Now, I’ve discovered something Mom is hiding.

“Malyshka, please,” she gasps. “I didn’t want you to see this.”

Shaking my head, I come closer for a better look. The marks resemble fingerprints. “He’s sick. We have to get away from here, Mom.”

There’s a loud knock on the door. “Hurry up,” one of the brigadiers yells. “We’re leaving! Get your shit into the car.”

Mom pulls the long-sleeved turtleneck into place, hiding all evidence of her “catching up” with Yann