Finding The Girl Who Disappears

Finding the Girl Who Disappears
Chapter One
The smooth stones crunch against the
soles of my boots as I move across the sand. My
body aches for rest, the temptation of sleep not
far from my mind, but I press on. Past the colorful
backsides of buildings, and the sidewalks
scattered with the last tourists of the summer, I
walk. Treading the unstable ground to the very
end of the spit, the biting air whips my curls
underneath the brim of my hat, there are
footprints in the sand that I follow. Slowly, the
shoreline fades into gray, cold water, and the
deep imprints veer into another direction. I
crouch low, resting on my heels, my arms
wrapped around my bruised legs that are hidden
beneath bulky pants. I stare. Four fishing boats.
Seven eagles circle above. A barge in the distance.
Focusing on the horizon, where Mount Augustine
greats the Halibut filled waters, I am searching.
My eyes continue to scan as the sun dips behind
the mountains. The breaking of waves creates a
1
lull, and my eyelids start to feel heavy. But I

continue my frantic surveying of the ocean in
front of me.
It starts as a speck, no different from the

common charter boat, but it moves too fast. The
captain of this particular boat has places to be and
people to see. Me to see. It grows bigger at an
exponential rate, and I know that I have found my
new employer before I can even make out the
name on the side of the yacht. It won’t be long
before the wooden dock has one less vacancy, so I
gather myself from the stones and algae, and do
what I do best. Disappear.
Following the path that avoids the docks,

jogging through the last bits of high grass and
vegetation. I move past the shops, avoiding
storefronts until I smell dough and tomatoes.
Returning to a normal pace I duck under a fence
and move towards the back window of Ptolemy’s.
Knocking with a grin plastered on my face, CJ
2
turns, rolls his eyes and slides the lock, opening

the window.
“The front door works like an absolute

gem, sugar,” he nags from inside the warmth of
the pizza shop. I hesitate for a moment letting the
hot air spill from the opened window onto my
rosy cheeks.
“Yes, but this way I get attention ASAP!

Two slices–”
“Supreme, yeah, yeah. Here,” he sneers.
I throw some bills at him and he slides

them back at me.
“Every time, we both know my Pop won’t

take anything from you.”
3
“But it’s always worth a try,” I give a sad

smile back. “Tell him I send my wishes,” I hum
wistfully as I move back from the rickety single
pane window.
His face turns to a look of regret, gray

washes over him.
“You’re gone, aren’t you?”
This is why you don’t get attached to

people with the line of work I do, friends are a
liability. A few weeks, some a few months, and
then I disappear again. I dip my head, the curls
crashing against my red cheeks, kicking the
ground with my boot.
“Duty calls,” I reply as I continue my

regression backwards.
4
He gives a sad smile, one I know all too

well on the people I meet. As he slides the
window back into place, he calls one last time,
“Chin down!”, and I can’t help but laugh, slowly
turning my back to the white building. It looks no
different than it did just a few months ago, still
bathed in the Alaskan summer dusk. But
somehow, when I look at the peeling white paint
now, I can’t help but feel a sense of security in the
crooked paneling and old-fashioned windows…
My new home, for the next few months.

Trudging across the wooden walkway I wonder if
I’ll ever get use to the sun peeking from behind the
mountains at such odd hours. There is no reason
for me to be constantly aware of my surroundings,
Homer is a safe town, but the habit remains.
Homer. My recuperation period, time to

learn some new skills, fix my broken body, and
move to the next place that calls for my help. The
quaint town is almost entirely asleep at this hour,
5
but I have jet lag, and can’t sleep without knowing

exactly how to get out. Only a few shop lights are
still on, the sound of my feet hitting wood creates
a methodical a pattern.
A slow screech and on instinct I quickly

turn, a loud thump follows, and I creep into a
shadow moving towards the sound. The
screeching continues, they get slower, then the cat
like screeches lazily diminish to nothing. Moving
between the crack of two small buildings, I stop
dead in my tracks when I see the burly fisherman
lying half in a building, half out, the squeaky door
behind him no longer flapping in the breeze.
His face tells the story, and I’m instantly

taken to three years ago when my father had his
heart attack as I graduated high school. Three
years ago, I sobbed into the phone to the
dispatcher as I watched my only family die in my
arms. But tonight, I know what to do.
6
I call 911, and give CPR, sheer minutes

later a whirling alarm complete with flashing
lights takes over my world. And as the man with
the white beard and fishing boots is put on a
gurney, I see his son come crashing down.
His scream pierces the chilling night air,

and I know where he’s coming from. The fear in
his eyes matched mine just years before. Next
thing I knew, I was huddled in the corner of an
eerily white room, in a cold chair, comforting a
mere stranger. Two hours and three minutes pass,
a pair of Carolina blue scrubs comes from inside
the catholic lab and tells us the news–I saved the
man with the white beard.
CJ and his father became the two people

in a matter of three years who I let into my circle.
I taught him my tricks, including tucking his chin
down when fighting, and he never failed to have
piping hot food. On Saturday mornings, we fished
in the bay; and on Saturday nights he slowly found
7
who I really was. It started as favorite colors,

foods, and the meaningless things. But slowly he
found my favorite books, why I never failed to
make my bed, and that I had a weak spot for lost
animals and decrepit homes. Then one day, so
unlike me, I tripped and fell. Not a huge deal for
the average person, except for the fact that my
entire life is eternally hidden in pockets and
waistlines. The papers came spilling out. Passports
and IDs under fake names, lost children ads, drug
busts, murder, and everything between. As he
went to help me get up, the gun tucked into the
small of my back gave me away. His eyes
widened, and my secrets tumbled onto the
wooden boards separating us, illuminated by the
glow of a full moon.
But tomorrow, a floating mass will take

me, and leave the coastal town with the white
building and its peeling paint. Another
disappearance, of the girl in the Stetson.
8
Chapter Two
There’s no need for an alarm anymore,
my body wakes without hesitation. It’s only after
four thirty in the morning, but I do not hesitate,
my feet slap the hardwood and in five strides, I’m
in the small kitchen complete with a coffee
maker. One click, and I hear water begin dripping,
hitting the glass pot in a methodical manner. I
snake towards the bag full of my clothes. I’ve
made a habit of never unpacking, not when my
stay is sometimes only a matter of days. I slide
into some well-worn jeans, moving slowly, my
body rejecting the bending and twisting. Slipping
my arms into a button up, I catch a glimpse of
myself in the mirror hanging on the pine paneling.
My torso is mangled at best. Shades of

purple, blue and green encase my ribs. An old
scar, peeking from the waistline of my jeans, and
a brand-new cut slicing from my belly button
9
upward. I had told CJ I was going hiking, and

although he gave me a skeptical look, he let me
leave. Within the hour I had a plane in the air and
was headed towards Russia. Before noon I had
touched down in Magadan, and before six I had
stab wounds.
Shaking the memory of my head crushing

pavement in a dark alley, I button the flaps
together, hiding the markings from view. Taken
back to reality, I hear the absence of dripping, and
pour the black goodness into a cup. Emptying the
coffee grounds, I give one last look at my
temporary home. I let myself feel the memories
and comfort of the small cabin one last time.
Closing my eyes, I take in a deep breath, smiling.
Not wanting to linger, I pull the straps of my
backpack over my shoulders and toss the canvas
duffel over my body. I cross over the door frame,
pulling it shut but leaving the key tucked safely
inside the lock.
10
No one is up, but I still duck between the

trees, lurking in the shadows that the moonlight
shapes. I make my way off the cliff side to the
shore, and immediately I see my future. It does
not sleep, the lights are bright and abundant, and
the sleek silver exterior looks out of place among
the fishing boats. As I walk down the strip, it
grows, from a mouse to a monster. With every
step forward it grows. When my feet come to the
edge of the dock, I have to crane my neck to begin
to comprehend the massiveness of the huge
vessel. From where I’m standing, I see three doors
leading into the cabin, there’s a lifeboat tucked
into a cavern on the side, and there is an intricate
sound system in the stern. I pull back my
shoulders, and step onto the metal ramp, onto
unsteady ground. Three paces to the left and I
find crystal blue eyes.
“Finley Harrison, I presume,” he inquires

with a smile.
11
“Fin, but yes,” he’s wearing a suit at five

am, the pants are too tight, and his leather shoes
are shined to perfection. His name is Benjamin
Morgan, he’s who heard of me and the one who I
have been in correspondence with. Six foot one,
walks with his right foot slightly turned out, and
when his hand reaches to shake mine, I see the
imprint of a Celtic design in the nook of skin that
reaches from finger to thumb.
“I’m Benjamin, the man you’ve been

talking with throughout the process. I’m just going
to show you to your quarters, and Mr. Sullivan will
be with you soon,” he turns on his heel and we
walk another twelve paces before turning right
into a glistening metal door, one staircase with
wooden treads, a left turn, and he opens a red
door to a room twice the size of my small cabin.
“I’ll leave you to it, someone will be by

shortly to take you to see Mr. Sullivan,” and with
that the tall blonde man lets his crystal eyes
12
wander over me once, and moves quickly from

view, turning back towards the stairs.
I slide my bags from my shoulders and

straighten. The air feels forced here, confined. I
immediately pull the clear doors on the right side
of the room, the sheer white curtains billowing
backwards with the sudden gust of air. The doors
open to a small balcony, to the right side is a
survivable fall to the first deck, and to the left you
can crawl to another balcony with the right
footing. The railings are higher here than where I
boarded, not that a normal person would need an
extra reminder to not dangle from balconies. I
return from the open doors and look at my
temporary home. A massive bed decorated with
pillows of all shapes and sizes, with matching
modern nightstands on each side. The dark
hardwood gives way to a rug half hidden by the
giant king, it conforms to the shape of my feet. I
step off. Moving to the next door, I slip my hand
over the cold knob, my sleeve covering my hands
13
from the harsh metal. The tile is gray, the sink, a

clean white. The excess is obvious, jets adorn the
tub, and three shower heads hang from above a
glass encased shower.
I turn away from the male like bathroom,

catching a glance at myself in the mirror. I’m out
of place. My curls have begun to frizz from
underneath my hat, one side of my red shirt
hangs below the line of my leather belt. I leave
the dark circles eyes staring back at me, the
echoes of my boots on tile disappear as I move
back into the bedroom. I turn to the third door
and am not shocked to find a closet with endless
shelves. I open a closet encased by sleek doors to
find a metal bar painted black, complete with
velvet hangers. My gaze lingers on the closet, so
focused on something so minor that I almost
don’t hear the footsteps drawing nearer to the
closed door of my suite. I move briskly from the
closet with motion censored lights, bumping the
door closed with my hip. A crisp knock echoes
14
through my room. Even though there are more

possessions in this room than I’ve had in my
entire life, the room still sounds hollow like an
empty house. I move deftly over the floor and
open the door, my left hand out of habit rests
close to my hip.
The woman is plump. She wears a tired

expression, only enhanced by her drooping eyes
and the crow’s feet that complement them. She
stands more than a foot below me, and her light
blue uniform is pulled taut across her waist. She
smiles. Her crow’s feet remain still. She registers
the hand that hovers near my hip, and her face
turns gray, the fake smile dwindles—she knows. I
immediately go to regain my composure; a smile
lights up my face and by left hand plants on my
hip as my right reaches out to pretend a delicate
handshake.
She apprehensively reaches out a tanned,

wrinkly hand.
15
“Bom dia, chamo de Mariana,” her voice

cracks with nervousness. She seems off kilter, she
will not look me in the eyes, and I try to find
common ground.
“Mariana is it? I know very little

Portuguese,” I hesitate to think of my next words.
“Fala Ingels?”
She smiles brightly, and with a heavy

accent her demeanor begins to shift to be
warmer. “Ah, Sim, my fault miss. I am Mariana, I
clean and cook on the ship, and was sent to find
you for Mr. Sullivan,” she rings the front of her
dress in her hands.
“Yes, Benjamin told me to expect

someone. Mariana?” I question.
She nods, looking over my shoulder at

nothing but air.
16
“There’s no need to be nervous around

me, I’m one of the good guys,” I assure her as she
finally meets my eyes and her hands fall to her
sides. Her crow’s feet finally lift.
“Come, come to meet Mr. Sullivan.”
And suddenly–I am the one who wants to

ring her hands through a dress. I adjust my hat
and follow the plump woman back up the twelve
stairs to my future…
Chapter Three
Her feet pad softly across the ground, up
the stairs and through the door to the deck. In the
opposite direction from where I stepped onto the
steel mass, passing three more doors until a
staircase forms in front of Mariana. It has six steps
that have metal webbing, I follow, matching my
steps to hers. It opens to yet another large deck,
17
and an ensemble of windows and doors that

stretch from floor to the overhang. Sleek gray
curtains are pulled across them, but the faint glow
of light sneaks underneath the threads. Mariana
moves towards a door on the left side, and
motions for me to follow her.
“This is Mr. Sullivan’s quarters,” she

doesn’t meet my eyes as she knocks.
An unintelligible, muffled sound comes

from inside the door, but she does not hesitate,
the door doesn’t creak as she pushes it open.
“Mr. Sullivan,” her head bows with clear

anxiety, “Finley Harrison is here sir.”
At this point she melts into the wall

behind her, and I step forward to meet the
desperate man. He has a whitening mustache,
one that curls out, like the cartoons of my
18
childhood imagination. His hair is full, white, and

longer for a man of his age, I’m guessing around
sixty-five. His torso stretches far above the edge
of the table, and he sits as though his spine is a
metal rod. Upon seeing me his hand reaches to
brush across his facial hair, his eyes survey me and
he stands.
“Finley, James Sullivan,” the man greets

with far too much personality, yet his voice is
hoarse, forced. This man screams of hurting from
underneath his cool exterior, and I am fully aware
that I am the last hope.
“You can call me Fin,” I reply reaching for

the hand with popping veins that lie under skin
that has begun to sag.
He begins to sit, and gestures for me to

do the same. His chair is wooden, no padding, it
sits high, something made for a person of older
19
age, ill equipped with moving deftly. I see a new

perspective to the billionaire in front of me.
My chair is the polar opposite, the

comfortable feeling of a well-worn chair minus
the well-worn look. To sit back too far would
mean a slow reaction time when moving. I
position myself on the edge, looking across his
desk as I do so. It’s littered with newspaper
clippings from across the world, his pens are
wooden, and a desk calendar is left on the month
of June, even though it is nearing September.
“Elliot was right, you do not fail to see

anything,” he breaks the silence, and my eyes
meet his with a resolute stare, I do not respond.
“Well, tell me. What do you know from

the half an hour you’ve spent on my yacht?” he
challenges with a grin. I have to remind myself
20
that he is not the enemy with the brittle smile he

gives.
“There is a missing lifeboat on the side of

the ship my balcony looks over, your work
calendar remains in the month of your
granddaughter’s disappearance, the shoes you’re
wearing will leave a traceable footprint, and
although you believe me to be a woman of little
stature in society, you contacted me because you
have exhausted all other resources your lavish
lifestyle provides.”
His pretend warm exterior leaves his

body, he asked for the challenge yet wasn’t
prepared to lose. He looks at me with a new type
of gaze. I am not the little girl who likes to catch
the bad guy, I am the woman who has built an
empire on being able to see what isn’t there. I
slide into the chair and cross my legs, leaning
forward to place my elbows on my raised leg.
21
“What other questions do you have about

my observational skills, Mr. Sullivan?”
He regains his posture that had previously

slumped with my spur of words. He adjusts the
circular bifocals that have slid forward with the
sudden perspiration on his face.
“Fin,” he pauses, and a sad smile begins

to form, “you’re exactly the person I need to
connect the pieces of my missing granddaughter.”
“I’m glad to see we’ve finally come to a

mutual understanding,” I reply nodding my head
once in agreement.
Silence fills the room, Mariana has left

long ago, and the quiet builds. It’s heavy, like
cinder block or stone caving in, almost hard to
breathe. It’s a standstill of which side will begin.
22
Who will start to speak of the next step. Of the

unimaginable feat.
“June 15th, at approximately 6:53pm,” I

begin.
“She went to explore in Cinque Terre of

Italy. You had just set anchor, and sent her with
Charles Worth, a member of your crew. He
moored the small life boat, and she insisted that
he stay there to wait–that she’d only be a few.
There were six witnesses, from three separate
groups on the dock that night that have all gave
the same account of this conversation. After three
hours, you sent other members of your crew to
the dock on another small lifeboat. They checked
all available docks within the area for your
lifeboat but were unable to locate it. Twenty-four
hours later you had all of Italy in your hands as
the search for Jack Sullivan’s granddaughter
began.
23
Two days in, the police found Charles’

body in the port of Vernazza, encased in a body
bag, under several feet of sand, he was still in the
same clothes he left in, but they concluded his
body has only been in the water for a few hours.
In fact, you saw him. He looked normal. Nothing
about him seemed out of place, no strangulation
marks wrapped around his neck, or a bullet
wound seeping from the space between his
brows. If you wouldn’t have known he was
poisoned, the only part of Charles that was out of
place was the ring on his left pinky.
You knew that ring, Izabelle had made it.

It was a thick band, copper and silver melted
together, shaping the outline of hill and
mountains. You use to tell her it was unladylike to
wear such a bulky man’s ring, and there it was
wedged onto his too large finger.
The case began to lose interest within a

few weeks, your money could only entice the
24
public in a dead man’s case for so long. But on

July 3rd, you woke up to a sound of creaking.
Someone was walking on your ship. Upon
investigation, you found nothing, but it was early
morning and your aging body was already
exhausted from the new found stress.
Days passed with nothing new, but then

Mariana came screaming. A lock of hair hung from
inside of the shower of her quarters, complete
with a scrap of the white shirt she left in that day.
Her quarters had the second-best location, which
meant they shared a wall with yours. You had
heard them.
Finding the lock of hair with part of her

shirt excited the case, but with no other leads,
and over a month after her disappearance, they
had little they could do. So, you did the only thing
you knew how to, offer a reward that couldn’t be
passed up. A million dollars for the return of
Izabelle Sullivan, and every news team in the
25
world was covering the story of the dead man in

the bay and the sixteen-year-old missing girl with
long dark hair and tanned skin.
Thousands of impostors swearing of

sightings of the young girl, but to no avail three
weeks after the announcement reward, she
remains gone. That’s where our stories
intertwine.
I was in Russia. Far from the pretty

beaches where she walked off a stone dock in
search of pastries and adventure. But after seeing
her plastered on every TV screen, newspaper, and
social media platform her face was unforgettable.
Although her skin had faded, and her hair was
nowhere as shiny, I knew the girl. Izabelle Sullivan.
I’m good at what I do, I have gut instincts

and never fail to listen to them. I knew I had
stared too long when the man in black who
26
pushed her head into an equally black car caught

my eye, I was in danger. The flirty, clueless
American girl act doesn’t work in Russia like it
does in other countries. He knew instantly I was a
threat and minutes later I was running from a
dark alley with a bloodied lip, open wound in the
back of my head, and fatal bruises on the man’s
neck.
I knew something was amiss, and I knew

Elliot Garble. A member of the CIA I assumed he
had some type of involvement in the case. You
are, most frequently, in America. So, I contacted
him. But the thing about me is that I ride under
the radar. No degree or credentials, I end up in
the positions that no one else is able to take.
These cases with impossible endings that, in your
case especially, most of the world has given up
on. A few calls to Benjamin, and you agreed to sail
halfway around the globe to find me–your final
option.”
27
Although I have covered the timeline of

his nightmare, I do so in less than three minutes. I
recite it perfectly, and he looks at me with a blank
face. I stare back, it’s his turn.
“Well,” he pauses and runs his hand

across his facial hair again, “it seems as though
you should tell the captain where to next,” he
replies as he stands and moves around the large
granite of his desktop.
“Magadan, and I suggest we find a much

cheaper form of transportation. Private yachts
and airplanes draw far too much attention.”
His jaw clenches, his eyes glass over, “You

will find her?” he questions.
I see his walls break down, I see the

helplessness that seeps through his firm exterior,
and I see the grandfather who wants nothing
28
more than his little girl back in the safety of his

arms.
“I will give you closure, I cannot guarantee

what form that will come in,” and with that I
stand, turn the expensive doorknob, now
understanding the oddly shaped faded colors
surrounding the mechanism. Fear has consumed
the white-haired man with wooden pens.
e good guys,” I assure her as she finally

meets my eyes and her hands fall to her sides. Her
crow’s feet finally lift.
“Come, come to meet Mr. Sullivan.”
And suddenly–I am the one who wants to

ring her hands through a dress. I adjust my hat
and follow the plump woman back up the twelve
stairs to my future…
29
Chapter Four
My feet take me on a pursuit upwards,
following the metal grated staircase to its end. I’m
met with the cockpit that encases a captain in a
pressed white uniform. He nods to the closed
door, much like Benjamin and Mariana, this man
already knows who I am. I move towards the
door, my hands slide beneath my sleeve, pulling
the steel handle downward.
“Captain. Towards Magadan,” he moves

without hesitation upon my cue of where to go
next. I turn, following my path back to the room
that echoes with the sounds of absence.
___________
I’ve changed into leggings and a dark

baggy sweatshirt that is slightly ripped at the
center of the neckline. My feet are bare, a purple
30
and green welt hugs the side of my left foot, but I

do not let the aching in my bones distract me. I sit
with my back pressed against the cool wall, the
balcony to my left and the door to enter my room
lies directly in front of my field of view. I’ve spread
every article of every false sighting, all the
clippings of poor-quality newspaper photos,
clipboards of social media followings, the timeline
of the week before her disappearance and the
testimonies of everyone in Cinque Terre across
the dark colored floor.
I roll my shoulders back, pressing them to

the wall and take a deep breath. It’s a mess, every
part of this is a disaster. Nothing matches. There
are thousands of dots, but not a single way to
begin connecting them. I’ve been staring for
hours, Nico Maroncelli of the NY Times, writes of
her disappearance just days afterwards. Her best
friend, Maggie Smalls, posts on Instagram two
days after her escapade with pleas for help. A
small Hispanic woman in Barcelona makes false
31
claims of seeing the young girl walking on her

porch at night. I try to remain focused, to see
what doesn’t want to be seen, but一
I hear footsteps moving down the stairs

outside my room, they are long. Someone drags
their feet when they walk, and they walk slowly,
not a threat. The yacht is still moving rapidly
across the ocean waves, but I still am alert to the
never-ending threats in this field of work. I silently
stand and move across the inside of the glass
doors quickly. The steps grow closer and I sigh
with relief, taking my hand from the tumor at the
small of my back. It’s Mariana, the breathing that I
can hear through the door, along with the
shuffled steps, give the woman away. She knocks,
and I pause, pretending not to have already been
waiting at the door.
The door glides without a squeak, and the

smile that doesn’t reach her eyes is back. She
doesn’t ring her hands this time, but they sit
32
almost too stiffly at her sides. Her eyes wander

past me to the mess of papers, and then to the
partially rolled carpet that lies flush against the
bottom of the bed. I step in line of her view and
redirect her attention, away from my the
calculated set up of the room, and to my face
where I greet her with an equally absent smile.
“Mariana,” I hesitate to wait for her next

move. Her eyes shift from the mess behind me
back to my face.
“Yes, uh,” she looks downwards, to the

left. Not at anything prominent on the floor, but
rather she’s in an internal fight with herself.
“The Captain wished for me to tell you we

will be at Attu station within roughly three hours,”
her eyes move back to meet mine.
33
Attu is where I told the Captain to leave

the walking bullseye that is this ship. It’s a remote
area, but still has deep enough waters to anchor
the silver beast. I told Jack that he should be
willing to pay for the loyalty of the locals, and he
didn’t flinch when I told him the fee with multiple
zeroes.
“Good, let Mr. Sullivan know we will leave

promptly after docking. Tell him to wear
something that will blend in,” she looks at me as
though she is unsure or incapable of telling him
this.
I purse my lips and bite the inside of my

cheek in thought. Her eyes do not leave mine, we
stare at each other, both refusing to withdraw.
Finally, she gives a single nod, and spins on her
heel, leaving me with my thoughts. I am grateful
to not have to talk to the pitiful white-haired man
for a few hours longer.
34
After hearing her footsteps disappear

behind the closed door, I turn back to the disaster
that is spread across the floor. My eyes leave the
ever-growing piles, and I grab my bags, heading
towards the massive closet. I take out three
button down shirts, hanging them evenly on the
velvet hangers. I place a folded paper towel in one
pocket, and loosely cuff the sleeves of the second
shirt. I lay out two pairs of socks on a shelf, one
with a key that unlocked the basement storage of
my childhood home. I place four neatly folded
shirts in the far corner of a bottom shelf, and I let
myself take in every crevice of the endless shelves
and fancy hangers.
Dragging my bag behind me, I move from

the closet and grab three of the plush towels from
the bathroom. Moving to the side of the bed with
the rolled portion of the rug, I lay the towels on
the floor, and cover them with the plush rug,
hidden by thickness but still able to effectively
give me its secrets of disruption.
35
Standing on the cold floor my body feels

as though it could collapse, I need sleep. I glance
at the time, I have three hours until I step onto
the harsh landscape of Russia. Turning the lock on
the door, I wedge the desk chair underneath, and
hang my lanyard of noisy keychains on the knob. I
wrap my jean jacket through the handles of the
French doors leading the balcony, and deftly step
over the plush rug, curling atop the comforter and
pillows, within seconds I have drifted…
I’m running. I’m bleeding and running. My

body is beaten, already swelling with welts, I limp
across the poorly lit streets. Through a dark alley
without knowing where to next, my heart pounds
with fear, the dream is the same. I relive that
horrific night in the dark streets of Magadan over
and over, each time I walk the same path. I sneak
around a corner and throw off my jacket and hat,
pulling my hair in a tightly wound bun, trying to
do anything to change my appearance. I am
pressed against the corner of a poorly lit tattoo
36
shop, and the large man heavily breathes as he

passes me without a second glance.
But this time when he walks into the black

car, the dream is different. My eyes are no longer
focused on the too shiny wheels of the car, but
higher. The corner of the window has never drawn
attention before, but today it stands out. Blatantly
obvious is the small logo in the window一Smirnov
Inc.
I jolt awake in a cold sweat, jumping from

the comforter, my feet slam against the floor. I
am alert. I immediately start shuffling through the
stack of clippings and articles that originated in
Russia, and the hair on the back of my neck stands
when I see it.
If I didn’t understand the way that

malicious men operate, I would have thought the
placement of the article to be a mere coincidence,
37
but I know better. Next to a short blurb of the

missing girl from Cinque Terre lies the beginnings
of a page long article on Smirnov. A company
known for mining gold, the article and photos
detail a new branch opening in a different part of
Russia. Although chilling to find this, I don’t realize
the worst part until I take another look at the
close up shot of the man with dark hair and strong
brows. Although pixelated, I’d recognize it
anywhere, the copper and silver mountains that
wrap around his left pinky match Izabelle
Sullivan’s ring. The article is from the day after she
stepped onto the stone streets of the coastal
town, the picture looks to be taken at a press
conference of sorts. One day after, the ring was
on this man’s finger, but two days after the ring
was found wedged onto the pinky of Charles’ in
the harbor.
I step away from the papers and take a

deep breath. I have dots to connect.
38
Chapter Five
I see the desolate island come into view,
the massive snow-covered mountains rise from
the ocean waters, and on one side of the island I
see the fisherman boat that will take us the rest of
the way. I adjust the carpet, check my hanging
clothes once more, and slide my near empty
duffle bag underneath the ornate desk. Slinging
the heavy backpack over my sore shoulders, I
close the door behind me, hear the lock slide into
place, and rest my ear against the door. I close my
eyes, memorizing the sounds that come from
inside as I send three knocks through the red
surface. I drop my hand from the door and let my
steps echo through the hallway, taking the stairs
two at a time, walking on the edges of the treads.
I open the door to the deck, and inhale sharply as
the frigid air seeps into my lungs, Jack is standing
at the bow of the ship, his back to me he stares at
the small island. I move towards him, the wind
39
whips through my hair, I tug my collar closer to

my face.
“Sir,” he quickly spins, his white beard

looking slightly more disheveled than when I saw
him last.
“Ah, Fin yes,” the bewildered look in his

eyes, and the way his hands shake from more
than the chill in the air leave a heavy sadness
surrounding us. I lack the ability to comfort him in
any way, as the crisp wind quickly dries his tears, I
am thankful for Benjamin who appears, breaking
the silence.
“Finley, this looks like the absolute worst

place to leave a yacht, but if you insist the Captain
and crew will remain here,” he remarks in a
mocking manner. I have not earned his respect
yet.
40
I look at him with a blank face, “Magdan is

not a safe place sir. It’s desolated here, but it’s
still America. It’s the best place for them to be.”
He nods, these men are too desperate to

question my methods. We are three hundred
yards from the island when I hear the engine cut,
the white fishing boat is moving across the waves,
I take a deep breath before speaking.
“Did you ever do any business with a gold

mining company called Smirnov, Mr. Sullivan?”
He looks taken aback, his salt and pepper

brows scrunch together in thought, his shoulders
slump inward as his hands dig deeper into his coat
pockets like he is digging for the answer.
“Once, three years ago. A project in

Ukraine, an old mosque needed renovated, and I
needed gold. They were close, and fairly
41
inexpensive. I never worked directly with them,

one of my colleagues did. Ziva, she told me a few
times that she was uncertain of their intentions,
after that project I hadn’t used them again.”
“Where is Ziva now?”
“She left my company after that project,

rather quickly if I remember correctly. I had
intentions to keep in touch, she was one of my
top project managers, but I never did.”
I’m not sure if the goosebumps are from

the cold, or from the eerie interactions of Jack
and Smirnov, but nevertheless, they are
prominent under the layers of coats.
“Why?” he asks as his eyes grow wide.
I chew on the inside of my cheek, “I

remembered it in a dream, Smirnov. There was a
42
sticker on the side of the car that took her,

‘Smirnov Inc’,” I reach into my pocket and pull out
the folded newspaper clipping. “And right beside
one of your ‘Missing’ plea bargains, Smirnov had
an article, on some new branch opening. But in
the picture, the man in the press conference,
Abram Volkov, he’s wearing your granddaughter’s
ring.”
His eyes turn watery, a dark mask takes

over his face, his hands shake as he grips the
clipping with all of his might. His bottom lip
trembles and he meets my gaze, “Abrahm I knew
一I know. I was never involved with Smirnov,
other than Abram. He consulted with me when I
first contacted them, he was on site with me
several times throughout the process. He was
young but knew his field extensively. When the
project ended, we remained in touch, he was a
plethora of information on anything and
everything mining. In early April he said he’d be in
the states, and we agreed to meet in New York,
43
where I had to be for a meeting on a new

skyscraper. When we met, he was,” he pauses, as
if imagining his appearance, “unusual. A sheen of
sweat covered his forehead and upper lip, he
seemed nervous. He made an excuse of needing
to meet a client and told me to be careful. I tried
to stop him from leaving, but he was rushed and
left. He said again to be careful on his way out,
mumbling under his breath. I had tried to contact
him multiple times since, but he never replied.
After a month I gave up, I haven’t had any contact
with him since that day.”
I let the story sink in, Jack doesn’t just

know Smirnov and the man in the picture, he’s
worked with them, he’s invited Abram into his
life. The look on his face tells me that he too
understands the danger of this partnership, I
don’t need to spell it out for him.
“Where does this leave us?” he questions.
44
“I’m retracing my steps in Magdan, trying

to find why they were there, and then we take us
where that leads,” I’m brief, I don’t show all of my
cards. I move away, the small fishing boat is feet
from the yacht now, I move to exit the boat
heading into uncertain waters.
___________
The burly man with waiters reminds me of

Pop, but I push the thoughts of CJ and his father
out of my mind, my makeshift family only an
unwelcome distraction when stakes are high. We
move towards a rickety dock, and I prepare myself
to step into my living nightmare. The mountains
are snowy, the gray buildings look depressed
against their white and gray backdrop.
Behind me, I hear Jack’s missteps as he

tries to exit the boat. He’s dressed in expensive
clothes, and carries a suitcase that rolls, a liability
45
that I need to hide. I’ve already examined hotels, I

almost forgot how sketchy this place was, the #1
hotel has a 2.5-star rating, but I’ve already booked
it under a false name.
We walk up the crumbling pathway, away

from the ocean waters and Alaska to the paved
despair of the city.
It’s already early afternoon here, the time

zone differences have consumed half of the day, I
quicken my pace. I walk as though I know these
streets, and maybe, in a way, I do. I know where
my jaw slammed into concrete walls, and I know
the exact spot I saw a beautiful girl shoved into a
dark car.
“Fin,” I hear Benjamin already out of

breath, he wheezes as though he has climbed the
mountains surrounding us.
46
There’s a man with a large bag walking

across the shoreline, he moves slowly. I turn my
head towards Jack and Benjamin, my gaze half
lingers on stray man “Hmm?”
“You have yet to tell us where to next,

you continue to be elusive, you drag us across the
world, yet still do not trust us enough to say even
a fraction of what is going through your head! I
realize that you were recommended with the
highest degree, but for the life of me I cannot
understand why a girl who doesn’t speak is
somehow regarded with such merit!”
Benjamin is practically screaming his last

sentence, now in the city’s sidewalks, he has
captured the attention of passerby. I cat claw the
sleeve of his fancy suit jacket and pull him into an
alleyway. In one swift movement I’ve lifted him
off the ground, my forearm pressed under his jaw
pins him to the cold stone, and his hands drop his
bags clawing at my arm.
47
“I do not appreciate being called a girl, I

give you the information that you need to know
to survive, because if you knew it all, you’d be
cowering in corners. I haven’t fully slept in over
two years, I have had too many near death
experiences to count, I know the feeling of being
waterboarded, and have seen murder. If you
knew all that I know, you’d be an even bigger
liability than the fancy dressed bulge you are now,
and you’d be dead in hours. So, complain about
what you don’t know again, and you’ll end up in a
shallow grave in the valley of these mountains.”
I release the forearm that pushes against

his trachea, he slides down the wall to his feet,
and shakes his head. Turning, Jack’s face is ashen.
I give them a crumb.
“I booked a hotel, we are headed there,

you two are going to stay there. I’m tracing my
steps to where I saw the car and looking for
anything out of the ordinary. They weren’t dumb
48
enough to stay in the same place after I saw them

that night, so I have to evaluate their next move.”
I hand Jack a slip of yellow legal paper.
“Take off your suit jacket and tie, ruffle

your shirt, carry your bag, do not roll it. Check in
under that name, lock the doors and do not leave
until I come back. If I don’t return in five hours,
head to Otter Rock, Oregon and I will meet you
there within a week if I’m not dead.”
Benjamin snickers hoarsely from his

position on the ground, and I kneel to his level. “I
do not joke Mr. Morgan, this is not a laughing
matter. At any moment my life teeters on a never-
ending high wire”.
The smile vanishes from his face, he

moves his legs to his chest like a scared child. Jack
has already removed his tie and jacket, tucking
49
them neatly into his suitcase which now lies on his

side.
“Five hours, Fin,” he nods and nimbly

smiles.
Chapter Six
I walked them to the hotel, as untrusting
as I am of allowing anyone to be in charge of
anything, it’s getting dark soon and I need as
much time as possible in streets bathed with
daylight, I let Benjamin tackle the makeshift “front
desk.” I kept my bag strapped tightly on my back
when Jack offered his hand to take it, there is
comfort in the canvas pressed firmly against my
spine.
Without thinking, my feet move swiftly.

My gaze lingers on shadows that come to close,
and I hone in on any unusual noises. Snow flurries
50
around me, wind spins my hair, but I continue to

the place where my blood seeped into cold
concrete. I shouldn’t know these streets as well as
what I do, but they’ve haunted my nightmares for
weeks. Within minutes I meet the dark alleyway,
it’s gray and black confines shape the mood. I
don’t figure I will find leftover pieces from that
night, but I’m hoping being here will trigger
something in my mind.
I dislike the smell, that much I do

remember. It’s heavy and mixed with something
that’s a cross between stale air and rotting. Bile
rises in my throat. I hear approaching footsteps
and press myself further into the confines of
darkness.
“…I didn’t say she was going, they just

left. He’s not dumb enough to parade the girl
around there, I’m just— “
51
The heavy Russian accents are even

closer, they turn, their footsteps follow mine.
“Why would you have left it here? You

were never supposed to be in the streets of
Magdan you fool.”
The men are in dark long jackets, the

snow falls around them, but they do not notice, I
shrink further behind the dumpster and left
behind boxes.
“Yes,” he emphasizes the “s” much like a

child imitating a snake, “I’m well aware, but in
order to get her to Sinegorye unscathed we had
to be here,” he sounds annoyed, like he has made
his case a thousand times before to this man.
“It’s not here, we need to leave.”
52
“The other girl was a fluke, she hasn’t

come forward requesting Jack Sullivan’s millions
in rewards, she couldn’t have made it far after she
fled.”
My hands form fists, pressed deep into

the pockets of my coat. This man tried to kill me. I
stop myself from lashing out, I take three silent,
deep breaths and remain unseen in the corner.
The taller of the two is kicking the ground, shifting
small debris his eyes are searching. The other
makes no move to help, he spins, his coat
catching the wind and looking like a scene from a
movie, he turns and leaves.
The other man huffs, half-heartedly

looking across the dimly lit ground. When his
search meets the debris I hide behind, I swallow,
hearing the sound in my ears. For a moment I
think his eyes meet mine, but no sooner do I
make eye contact, and he too spins out of the
53
alley. His shoulders strong, they push on the

seams of the felt fabric.
I no longer hear his trailing footsteps, I

wait for over half an hour before leaving my
hidden shelter. My legs have gone to sleep, and I
move awkwardly, my foot catches on the bottom
of the dumpster, and as I pull myself from the
rumble, a flash of light spurts across the ground. I
creep across towards the fragment and when I
see the rectangular shape decorated with crusted
blood, I am taken back to the feeling of a cold
blade pressed against my skin. My fingers wrap
around the steel, and I stand. Tucking the knife
deep into my back pocket, I head to the hotel—I
have a new place to find, and Magdan to
disappear from.
___________
54
When I enter the hotel, no one speaks. An

empty front desk, and a desolate looking hallway
that I find myself wandering down. Room 27 is the
ninth door on the left-hand side, peeling plastic
made to look like wood hangs off the right corner.
The number is slightly crooked in a brass casing. I
knock once, the door swings open in a way that
screams novice. I slide inside and swing the door
silently closed behind me. A single lamp
illuminates the half-lit faces of my comrades, Jack
as stiff as a board on the edge of one of the
meager sized beds, Benjamin staring from the side
of the room with his arms crossed.
“The men, they were back at the alley.

The one who fought with me, and another. And
they had her here. They said something about a
place called Sinegorye, I’m going to find where it
is, plan to leave here around midnight.”
I don’t mention the knife that rests firmly

in my closed palm, deep inside the well of my coat
55
pocket. There a few things that I need more than

sleep, but I grab my bag to leave.
“I’m going to find where Sinegorye is, and

how to get there. Stay here, and don’t do
anything dumb, we are leaving around midnight,”
my voice is low, I don’t dare let the thin walls steal
my words. In an instant I have left the green
carpeted room in search of a random IP address
and secrets.
___________
Hours later I have finally formulated a

plan. Two libraries, a dozen computers, and one
questioning man later, I have answers. The town
in about seven hours from here. Once full of
people, but now marked with broken windows,
and desolate dreams, the perfect place to hide.
The worsening weather will make travel hard,
especially with the weight of two clueless men to
56
drag along. As much as I would like to send them

somewhere safe and tell them to wait for my call,
I know this is not an option—Jack Sullivan is
through with waiting. I walk down the poorly lit
hallway of the hotel, and find the crooked brass
number again, slipping inside my eyes adjust to
the darkness, seeing the two blanket covered
bodies slowly breathing.
I click on the light and Benjamin stirs. A

deep groan, and his tall frame stretches taut
across the small mattress.
“We are leaving, move quickly,” Jack

stumbles from bed, and Benjamin shows an
unusual look of concern on his face.
“You haven’t slept more than three hours

since we met you in Homer, can’t you take a
moment to rest?” Benjamin’s voice is low, his
brows are drawn together and the way his nose
57
flares gives a look of concern, of caring that I do

not like to see.
“We need to move. Those two men could

still be here and staying overnight in this hotel is
the equivalent of sitting ducks, and the longer we
stay the older Izabelle’s trail becomes. Gather
your stuff, leave the key in the lock, exit out the
back, I have the blue car,” I never made it past the
entryway of the hotel room, another space to
disappear in my memories.
The boxy blue car is far from what I am

used to, its tight confines and firm seats do not
encompass my body like CJ’s Ford truck did. I
shake the thoughts from my mind, I need to
focus, I am seven hours from entering the lion’s
den and I’ve allowed my thoughts to be clouded
by daydreams of a temporary home. A tight turn
of the keys and the bartered car gives a low
rumble, Benjamin and Jack exit out the backside,
their bodies illuminated by dim headlights.
58
Benjamin comes to my door, I raise an

eyebrow as he opens the rickety latch.
“I’m driving. You call all the shots, but I’m

driving, you’re exhausted.”
My controlling instincts creep to the

surface, to not drive means to not be entirely in
control of my environment. It’s not me and it’s
risky, but my feet move before my mind does, and
I’ve slid to the passenger seat.
“Follow P-504 to Deblin, from there it’s

not long. Do not drive in fast lanes, the car is
unregistered, and you don’t have any type of ID.”
“Miss Harrison, I am fully aware of the

dire situation and will not act rashly, now sit back,
and release the death grip on your seatbelt.”
59
He’s right, my knuckles are white from

their tight grip, my body is rigid in the
uncomfortable seats. I remind myself that these
men need me far more than I need them and sink
backwards.
“Why? Why this place? I mean I know but,

how?” Jack speaks for the first time from the back
of the close quartered car.
“I’m not sure how, yet. But I have a

feeling that the locals in Sinegorye are desperate
to spill secrets, so as long as you are willing to be
patient and let me do what I know how to, I will
find the how,” my eyelids begin to sag. The
passing gray buildings look far more depressing in
the darkness, and I silently wonder how…
___________
60
I’m running, running, running, stop. I spin,

my face breaks into a smile, the snow falls on my
face, snowflakes littering my eyelashes—I laugh. I
fall backwards, into white. The mountains are
familiar but the air I breath is not. I sink further
into the white, it becomes harder to breathe,
struggling for air, I admire the swirling designs of
the clouds ahead, my vision goes black.
I jolt upright, gasping for air—the white is

gone, I can breathe. My eyes flash to the meager
excuse of a dashboard and radio, it blinks a red
4:48. I clench my jaw, tightening my legs around
my backpack nestled between my legs. Jack is fast
asleep behind me, his light noises give him away, I
turn to Benjamin.
“Why did you let me do that? Do you

even know where we are going?” I’m angrier at
myself than at him, the words tumbling from my
mouth. I’m upset that I allowed myself to do
something as careless and stupid as sleep.
61
“You told me to follow this highway until

Deblin Miss Harrison, did you really think I was
not capable of that?” His voice is dry, he wears a
smirk, I purse my lips and release the tension in
my shoulders.
“Fin, not Miss Harrison,” I deeply sigh.

He’s right, the highway is virtually empty, the
darkness covers the blue car in a thin blanket of
security, and I wasn’t going to be able to function
much longer on that minimal amount of sleep.
“How far are we?”
He laughs, it’s a deep, rolling laugh. In

another life, it would have been the type of laugh
I’d have joined in on. But today I stare at him and
wait for an answer.
“I have a hard time believing that Fin

Harrison doesn’t know where she is at, even if she
62
has just woken from a deathly slumber,” he

remarks. I have to give it to him, he’s picked up on
pieces of me.
“We’re around fifteen minutes away, you

make the next left, that road should lead us to
Sinegorye,” I stare ahead as I answer his question.
“There’s the woman I hired.”
My jaw clenches again, this man annoys

me.
“Make sure you keep him with you today,

for us remain on their trail I need to be without
interruptions and emotional investments. Keep
him entertained,” I don’t mean to sound harsh, I
mean to be firm, but Benjamin sucks in a tight
breath.
63
“He’s not like this normally. I’ve never

seen the man anything less than perfect, perfect
appearance, perfect business, perfect family,
perfect life. If we don’t find her,” he lowers his
voice even more, “or part of her soon, this will do
him in.”
I nod, I’ve seen it before, I’ll see it again,

the toll that these circumstances bring on
someone. Suddenly feeling like I owe him
something, a part of me that isn’t elusive, topped
with a hat, and unfeeling.
“I lost my father after high school

graduation, I know a fraction of what he feels. I
will be relentless.”
By now we have turned into the sad town,

Jack still snores lightly, but my eyes are alert.
Crushed windows are the norm of these buildings,
occasionally a small section of the prison like
64
structures are painted a bright color. Even the

vegetation here holds on by a thread. I have been
to the corners of the world, to deep jungles, high
mountains, steaming deserts, and bustling cities,
but never have I been to a place as sad as
Sinegorye. I tell Benjamin to turn off the
headlights, and he skids to a stop behind some
other rickety cars where I direct him. Jack wakes
violently, grabbing the headrest of my seat and
coughing.
I silently step from the car, my feet hit the

dusty road. I am greeted in seconds, I prepare to
hurt someone until I see where the noise comes
from. Her hair is brown, she is tiny, standing only
to my waist. Her light brown hair frames her face
with thick bangs, he jeans worn, and her face
questioning.
“Vy, vy! Vasha mashina plokhaya, vy ne s

chernymi lyud’mi?”
65
Black men, she said my car was bad, and

asked for black men? She notices my hesitation
and repeats herself.
Not black men, but the men in black? The

men in black. With nice cars. They’re here. I smile
and reply.
“Ya druzhu s muzhchinami v chernom.

Gde ya ikh naydu?”
I tell her we are friends, and ask her

where to find them, the perky girl draws closer
and whispers.
“Mat’ skazala, chtoby ne skazat’, no oni

tam. Komnata 212. No oni skupy. Devushka byla
khorosha, no oni otnyali yeye u menya, kogda my
igrali.”
66
A girl? No, not a girl, the girl. As in the

only girl these men have with them. I dig into the
pocket of my coat and give her one of my last
rooter candies from Homer.
“Spasibo.”
She runs away, and I turn to Benjamin

who wears a confused look. I point at the building
she did, “212. They’re here she said. But she said,
‘they took the girl away’”.
“Izabelle was here.”
Chapter Seven
I feel the bumps rise to the surface of my
skin, and I know, as I’m covered in numerous
layers of warmth, it has nothing to do with the
chilling air around me. She was here, she may still
67
be here—they may still be here. I shove my fist

into Jack’s chest, gripping a fistful of felt coat and
cashmere scarf I want to berate him for foolish
clothing choices, but I keep silently. Pushing him
into Benjamin, I guide us all to the corner of a gray
building, covered by the shadows. I don’t move a
muscle, the streets are dark, but if a little girl runs
through them, anyone could. Like the imbecile
Benjamin is, he begins to talk, no not talk, shout.
“Finley Harrison, what in the— “his voice

slams against the empty apartment complexes,
echoing through the streets, it’s like the man
wants to alert the universe of our location. A swift
movement, and I kick his knee in, he buckles to
the ground and in his moment of weakness, I’ve
secured the crook of my elbow firmly against his
neck, my fingers gripping the seam on the sleeve
of his coat. I tighten and whisper into his ear, his
movements become slower, like the ending
moments of a drowning victim.
68
“Benjamin, I am not sure how many times

you will continue to question me. But every time
you do, you endanger not only yourself, me, and
your boss, but also the young girl who’s life hangs
on a precipice. So, I suggest you learn the virtue of
silence.”
I release the grip the nook of my elbow

has secured, and he rubs his temples and
grimaces lightly. My eyes scan across the series of
buildings before us. The little girl ran towards one
where the bottom portion is ironically painted a
bright pink and purple. A series of other portions
of buildings are equally bright colors of blue,
green, and yellow. My eyes wander cautiously
from the shadows. Darkness, another line of them
and darkness. Darkness, broken…. I see it, a
window slightly unlike the others, a dark piece of
fabric is pulled taut across the fourth story
window. From this point of view, you can barely
make it out, but it’s clear the want to conceal
something behind the broken shards and snow
69
lined window frame. It could be from kids like the

little girl, but the ominous dull glow seeping
through the dark coated fabric tells me these are
not bored children.
“I’m finding somewhere for you to stay

for a few,” I address Jack and Benjamin. “Get up, I
didn’t hurt you,” I nudge Benjamin’s thigh with
the toe of my snow-covered foot.
Knowing that he will be soaked from

laying on the wet ground, I scan the perimeter
looking for a temporary shelter. A small metal
doorway hangs slightly open in the darkened
corner of the street. I grip Benjamin’s collar and
pull him to his feet, guiding Jack towards the door.
Unzipping my coat, my hand snakes to the small
of my back, I slowly pull the door open another
few inches, my eyes adjusting to the pitch black. I
pull back further, a small uncomfortable looking
couch sits ripped and upturned in the corner of
the room, a well-worn rug takes the span of most
70
of the small room, the electrical socket is ripped

from the wall. But it’s empty. I quickly guide them
inside and seal the door behind us, trapping the
wind outside. It’s not warm, but at least the
howling wind is unable to seep into their bones.
“They’re here, I’m going now. If I haven’t

returned by tonight, I’ve been unsuccessful and
am either dead or with them. You’ll know if I’m
still alive. Stay here,” I pause, my eyes moving
directly to Benjamin who never seems to heed my
instructions. I move the door open just enough to
leave when Jack speaks.
“What can I do?” His question throws me,

I’ve grown used to his silence.
“Stay, here, safe. Isabelle won’t want to

see a tired and cranky grandfather when she
returns,” I give a small smile and try to keep him
from letting depression consume him. I slide from
71
the small opening and push the door, leaving a

small space to keep it from freezing closed. It
snows heavier now, just minutes have passed, but
our tracks are almost entirely filled with the wind-
blown snow. I keep close to the edge of the
building, sliding between shadows, keeping alert,
but hearing little in the silence of the storms. I
gaze at the ugly concrete exterior, I do not know
any portion of the building’s layout. Its maze of
apartments will be a mystery to me, but they’re
inside. I know it. My feet move forwards.
A door. Ajar. Not like where I left

Benjamin and Jack, were the crease in the snow,
and little give told me it had not been moved in
quite some time. The door here does not stand
resolute, the wind moves it slightly with every
burst, and even more chilling are the fresh
footprints. They’re pointed in shape, a dress shoe.
The name reads Edmonds in clean print. I slide the
door back just enough for myself to sneak
through, careful to tread lightly. The footprints
72
continue inside on the dark ground, a dwindling

trail of snow melting tracks.
I walk slow, my wet shoes strain against

the ground, willing themselves to squeak. My eyes
adjust to the darkness, I pass rows of doors, the
occasional closet way, and at the end of the hall I
find the stairwell. From the way I came in, the lit
room should be three flights up to the left. I
slowly pull down on the handle leading to the
stairwell, as I open it, I catch the last sounds of
someone running up stairs. I freeze, pressing
myself into the corner of the stairwell, hopefully
unseen. A door slams closed, and the footsteps
disappear. My feet move without thinking, gliding
silently up the stairs until I run out. I touch my
hand to the knob, and it feels wet—wet with the
remains of a snowy glove. I peer through the
small window, and my breath catches in my
throat when I see the glow from the hallway to
my left. I back away from the door, slip my arms
from my coat and adjust the metal that lies
73
underneath my baggy purposefully baggy

waistline. One breath, two, three—
Steps, fast, loud, echoing, and coming

closer. I look for a place to hide, but before I can
they’ve moved past the door to my stairwell. I
hear a loud kick, and the whimper of a girl. My
eyes widen as I know. Izabelle. I can’t barge
through the door, with the odds of multiple men
and Jackson and Benjamin still in the dark room, I
can’t save her now. They’re still here, at the other
end of the hall I hear rumblings of Russian.
Somethings about higher, higher? A

woman they’re yelling over. Moscow, the Ritz.
Ritz? There words are more muffled, rushed, I
hear the creak of a door and running, running
away from me. I wait ten minutes, then twenty,
almost an hour has passed without a single sound,
I brace myself and slowly swing the door open.
The glow that once bathed the dark hallway is
gone, but I move towards the door that it came
74
from, still wide open, calling me to enter. The air

is chilling without my coat, but nonetheless I do
not notice. I slide one hand to the small of my
back while the other slides along the wall, I glide
towards the open door. Pulling the gun from my
back, I slip into the room, aiming my gun at
nothing.
It’s clear this was the room they were in;

the black fabric is still stretched across the
window. A mattress rests in the corner, blankets
askew on it. Papers ruffle the floor; a cup of
coffee sits half drank and still steaming. A man’s
necktie is left on the floor. I accidentally step into
a puddle of snow and grit that looks like it had just
melted, I crouch to the floor, and that’s when I
see me. Me. A photo from senior year, I was in
the paper for a community service project, dad
was still alive. He stands will me in the photo, the
bed of his truck filled with toys for a local charity. I
have a huge smile, he looks proud of me. But that
isn’t the only one, there’s pictures of me from the
75
day before I left, on the beach of Homer. There’s a

photo of me bartering with the man in Magdan
for the car. But there’s articles too, of my solved
cases. The dead girl in Paris, and the sex
trafficking in Africa. It litters the floor, underneath
the mess, a tan file folder marked “Harrison”.
Me.
Finley Harrison.
They knew I was here, they ran out the

doors, yelling instructions in Russian, because
they knew I was coming. I could have had her. A
few hours more, maybe even a day and I would
have been able to undermine their poor defensive
strategies. But they knew. I rack my brain for how,
I’d been so careful every step of the way. I have
no reason to believe I had been followed, but my
heart starts to race thinking of the vulnerable old
76
man and Benjamin who I left by themselves. If

they get to them before I do, it’ll be end game.
I move from my crouching position, ready

to leave the twisted room with a file of me. When
a journal sticking from the edge of the mattress
catches my eye. I slide it from the gasps of the
meager resting place and run my hands across its
worn edges, opening to where a ribbon splits the
book in two.
“Ritz-Carlton, 2nd, 19:00”
The page says nothing more, and I don’t

have time to search the rest of the book, I shove it
beside my gun in my back, and race towards the
stairwell, throwing on my coat. I’m back to the
small room where I left Benjamin and Jack in
minutes, before the sun has even begun to make
its way from behind the mountains that reach
endlessly into the disappearing snow clouds.
77
I push open the door, and Benjamin starts

with a jolt. Jack sits still and looks expectantly at
me.
“She’s alive. But they’re gone, we need to

leave now.”
Jack nods, and his eyes gloss over with the

news, “Alive?”
“Yes, I heard her,” I refrain from telling

him I heard her whimper after a swift kick.
He has gathered himself and moved to

the outside of the metal door, bouncing on his
toes in the cold. I look to Benjamin, his cheeks a
light pink, drop of wetness slide from his hair onto
his temples. I reach out my hand to help him to
his feet, his leather glove is cold and wet in my
palm.
78
“Finley,” he doesn’t meet my eye when

he acknowledges me, steps around my body and
stalks past Jack towards the car, the bottoms of
his suit pants damp with snow.
I move out, glancing once over the small

dark room, pushing the door tightly shut.
I look to Benjamin, “Ever been to

Moscow?”
His eyebrows draw to the center of his

forehead and a look of thought crosses over his
face, “Yes, often. My old friend designs and has
his company headquarters there. Why?”
“I think that is where they are headed

next, we need a place to stay, so you’ll be in
charge of that, yes?”
79
He smiles, happy to have a job that isn’t

“be quiet, be unseen” I suppose.
“Yes, I know a few.”
___________
I fought Benjamin for the keys, he was

unwilling to allow me to drive, but this way I make
it back to Magdan in time for our noon flight. Jack
wanted nothing less than first class, and for once,
I allowed the indulgence.
The airport here is unlike anything in

America, it’s small and security is practically
nonexistent, but the plush seats of first class are
nice, and I find myself quickly drifting on the
flight.
I wake to the sounds of wheels, the flight

attendant smiles at me, Jack sits at the window
80
seat beside me, and Benjamin several rows back. I

ask for water, and Jack takes a glass of whiskey.
“It’s a ball. At the Ritz, it’s a ball they’re

going to. I’m not sure how they plan to take your
granddaughter there, but nonetheless that is
what is happening in the Ritz on September 2nd
at 7pm, a ball. Charity sort of thing, big companies
come and pay lots of money per plate to look
good. I’m not sure if it’s safe for you or Benjamin
to attend, but with enough makeup, I could look
different,” I ramble.
He nods in understanding, “Unsafe for us I

agree, I know Abraham, and if she was there, I
wouldn’t be able to hold back,” he chokes out the
last few words and his knuckles turn white from
gripping the arm rest.
“Benjamin,” he begins to laugh, “seems

too aloof these days to be of much use. I’ll make
81
arrangements for you to go, I’ll find you a date as

well, less suspicious for you I suppose.”
“Whoever it is, make sure they speak

Russian well, are undeniably loyal to you, and
looks presentable. People are far nicer to those
who wear tuxedos well,” I pause, unsure of how
to approach my next question.
“How exactly do you and Benjamin line

up? Where do his story and yours collide?”
“Oh, hmm. Well,” he takes a sip of his

drink, his eyes squinting with remembering, “he
latched himself onto me. A large conference in
the states, he was there to cover the story for
paper, or blog or something or another, and he
quite literally attached himself to me.”
“For the three days I was there, he was at

my side nonstop, asking questions, wanting to
82
learn and understanding. I gave him my card, I

thought he had potential, I just wasn’t sure at
what. He contacted me a little over a week later,
and within the end of the month he had become a
part of my permanent staff. We had a great six
years, but since the beginning of the year he’s
changed. More irritable, rash, doesn’t particularly
like Izabelle, but it’s more of sisterly, brotherly
dislike that they share. The stress of recent weeks
has only added to our riff, but he continues to be
relentless in helping me.”
He pauses, unwilling to continue I decide

to speak, “He seems like an interesting man.”
He laughs lightly, and the rest of the flight

is filled with the clink of ice cubes against glass,
and the hum of jet engines lulling me to sleep.
Chapter Eight
83
My hair is pulled in a tight knot at the top

of my head, the wild mess that normally frames
my face is a memorable part of me to most. My
sunglasses lie low on the bridge of my nose, far
too big for my face making me look almost
childish. I don’t look like myself, but it works this
way. Unrecognizable, my boots, jeans, and
Stetson traded in for a style that blends into the
very crevices of this town. The tight jeans are
unknown to me, the evergreen leather jacket and
light pink scarf hang off my body, unsure. The
jeans leave no space for a weapon, so the large
purse I carry is necessary although annoying.
I walk as though I have purpose—I know

where I am going. But these boots are on
unfamiliar ground, and as I snake through bustling
crowds, searching for the hues of gray and black,
my breath catches.
I’d know his face anywhere. He smiles, his

bright white teeth, and the way his dark hair flops
84
perfectly over hard-set eyebrows. A five o’clock

shadow at ten in the morning, and a stride that
says he means business. Abraham Volkov. He’s
walking down the street—towards me. My mind
begins to race as I think of the file of my
accomplishments and photos, but as the young
business man passes me he barely gives a second
glance, his smile directed elsewhere.
He may not have noticed me, but I heard

every passing word, a mere six seconds of Russian
words spilled onto the sidewalk between us, but I
feel as though it could be a lifetime of
information.
A ball, in the Ritz-Carlton, on September

2nd at 19:00, 7:00pm. He was angry, and he said
something about an ill-timed arrival.
So I was right on Moscow, they came here

for the Ritz, but is she still with them? Why would
85
they parade her around a ball where people could

see? Or is it a cover?
Chewing on the inside of my cheek I make

the next left, watching my ankle booties step one
in front of another. Deep in the corners of my
mind, I don’t resurface until I see the ending of
sidewalk underneath my feet, and as my eyes
leave the cold ground and turn upwards, I catch
sight the building for which I have been searching.
My hands snake towards my bag and I

peer at the photo confirming; the sleek exterior,
the male features of sharp edges and dark tones
all tell me this is the building. I haven’t seen
Marcus Fredor since I was in Africa in August of
2015. We ran through jungles, and cities, and
deserts, and when my job was done and I went to
disappear, he gave me his card. I’d never thought
to contact him, I was a one-woman operation—
but if anyone knows how to get me into a high
society Russian Ball unnoticed, it’s Marcus.
86
I snake around the back of the building

like he instructed on, it takes eleven strides to
make it from the sleek facade to a side door in the
alley the color of soot. The wind doesn’t blow as
hard here, I am protected by the numerous giants
surrounding me. The door has a gray box, and
when you slide the covering upwards, blue
numbers glow back at me. Two glances to each
side to ensure I am alone yet again, I punch in the
9-digit code and with a light click, I slide between
the newly found crack.
It’s dark. I dislike the vulnerability that

comes with my adjusting eyes. They flash across
my new environment, it’s warm—not
uncomfortably so, but the type of warm that
would have once made me want to curl under a
blanket and read. I don’t read anymore.
My eyes begin to adjust, and I see the

faint glow near a slit by the floor, another second
or two and I am able to make out the door that
87
floats above the glowing line of light. I straighten

the odd leather across my shoulders, and stand
straight, shifting the large bag straps from my
shoulders to the palm of my hand. With the
sleeve of my hand on my palm, I turn the metal
knob and enter the next room.
He’s older. I don’t know why I expected

him not to be, thirty years in this line of work
would take a toll on anyone. But his gray seems so
much more prominent now, the way his skin sags
surrounding his lips and the way he slumps in his
chair makes me see his age. His brow creases
when he looks at me, and then his face changes,
the smile lines rise and the make breaks into a
grin. Recognition.
“Fin, dear,” he rolls the “r” on the end of

the word, it ricochets through the ill lit room.
Pushing himself from the dark mahogany of the
desk in front of him, he walks around the side and
envelops me in a bear hug. My arms slide to his
88
chest and I push him, rolling my eyes as his laugh

echoes around us.
“You’re lucky this outfit is so restricting,” I

say as I roll my shoulders in an attempt to make
the tight leather more comfortable around my
torso.
He stares at me, his eyes glossing over, I

know he’s thinking of all of his last words. That
what I do isn’t safe, I could stay with his family, or
go to school, that he knows of opportunities
where I would be safe. But that isn’t me, and
although he dislikes it, we both know that it’s
true. I break his stare, and my hands involuntarily
reach to the papers scattered across his desk.
A payroll from a medium sized company,

Italian newspapers, several blurry security camera
images of a man in an oddly large coat, and a half
empty cup of camel colored coffee. The room
89
smells distinctly male, and I focus on anything but

his unspoken concerns that hang like a noose in
the air.
“I need in,” I breathe quietly as I shuffle

through the array of papers.
I shift my eyes to his, my chin still angled

at the ground I look through my eyelashes,
drawing my brows together and drawing my
brows together I do not break contact. He inhales
a deep breath that makes his chest rise in a
cartoonish manner.
“I can get you in, but–”
Unlike my normal waiting persona, my

words pounce relentless on the middle of his
sentence.
90
“Done. Anything. I’ll complete any task

following the ‘but’ of your proposal,” my words
cut off his words, my eagerness to keep my new
white-haired client from gaining any new wrinkles
is clear.
He grins, in a knowing way. He moves

towards another corner of the room where I had
noticed a large door, steel, but made to look like
wood to blend with the interior of the room. He
gives three quick wraps, and it cracks open,
bringing with it a new source of artificial light. I
squint momentarily, but then the bright white
that shines in my eyes is almost entirely blocked,
a large dark shadow looming forces my brain into
a protective state, but there isn’t a crushing blow
to my face, or blood on a sidewalk.
A hand.
91
Five fingers and a bear paw of a hand

stretch across the space between us, my gaze
travels up a barbaric looking arm covered by tight
cotton, to the most well-trimmed beard I’ve ever
seen. His dark eyes add to the scariness of his
persona, but when I shake his hand, his dwarfing
mine, his callouses do not press hard against my
own, and his eyes shift to the air between us, not
meeting my eyes.
“My condition,” Marcus begins, “is

Myles.” He pauses, gauging my reaction, “Going
alone would bring far too much attention when
you need to blend to obtain intel, seeing their
next move before they do, and leave. Because, as
I expressed before, I cannot have you killing
someone, and disappearing with the lost girl in
the aftermath. There are too many people on this
side of the planet who would find I helped you,
and make my family pay.”
92
His voice is stern, serious, as though he

believes I do not understand the risks that
accompany dealing with ruthless hitmen and
international kidnappers. Drawing my attention
back to the large new presences in the room, I
raise an eyebrow subconsciously as I study his
large frame.
“Myles,” I pause and give a sarcastic smile

to Marcus, “prepare for the worst four hours of
your ball attending career.”
___________
I intertwine my fingers, pressing my

shoulder blades together and try to relax as my
knuckles make a snapping sound. Everything
about this scenario is so far from where I feel
comfortable, but I continue to let the lanky
woman flit around my body, swirling fabric and
pinching in all the places I wish she wouldn’t.
93
The longer I stand and wait, the more

time I have to think through plans, escape routes,
and the always certain possibility of death. Lost in
my thoughts of what the night will bring, I do not
hear Arielle gliding through silk and tulle say a
word to me. She speaks louder now, and I return
to my normal state, stepping form the podium
and removing the emerald dress that is now
littered with pins.
Although out of the sleek gown, I still feel

out of place in my new apparel that is tight jeans
and conforming jackets. I have less than forty-
eight hours before I enter the lion’s den, Myles in
tow. I’m annoyed by the fact that I have the
liability of another human to protect but know
enough about blending into the scene to
understand Marcus’ insistence.
The tall woman returns, she tells me to

come back this evening, and to wear a more
pleasant look. My lips break into a small smile,
94
trying to seem like a nervous young girl attending

her first ball and not a woman planning to find the
world’s most famous missing girl. I hand her the
numerous bills from Jack, the man will spare no
expense, even funding the long pool of fabric
trailing from the back of the dressing room door.
She nods at me, reminds me yet again to come
back this evening, and I leave the too white walls,
and marble tile behind me.
I sling the purse into the crook of my

elbow and slide the large sunglasses over my face
for the second time today. Two women pass on
my left, the one slightly shorter than the other,
their brown hair spins with the wind. The shining
buildings are stark in contrast from the desolate
concrete I was surrounded by just a day ago, less
of a sense of hopelessness in these streets ridden
with signs of human activity.
I’m making my way across the painted

white strips of a crosswalk, when a familiar felt
95
coat catches my attention. The way his posture

stands tall, and the quick turnover of his steps
invigorate me. I told Benjamin and Jack countless
times that they needed to stay inside until I came
for them, that far too many people would
recognize the desperate billionaire and his trusted
assistant. Yet the dark coat flaps against his
calves, and his shiny shoes moves quickly across
the sidewalk.
I adjust my glasses covering the tops of

my arched eyebrows, and move between
shadows, following Benjamin in his quick pursuit
in a direction opposite of the hotel. He doesn’t
slow his pace, maneuvering between obstacles
and people. He doesn’t show the signs of
confusion. His strides are too sure, his pace too
rapid. But Jack hasn’t done extensive work in
Moscow, not nearly enough for his assistant to
know the streets like he does. He continues,
faster, and one minute I see the clear outline of
96
his shoulders in the workday crowd ahead, and

the next I don’t.
Nowhere.
Nothing.
I stand at the corner of the crosswalk, jut

my hip outward and pull my chin upward with a
look of annoyance at the cars passing across my
path. My eyes move across the scene unfolding in
front of me, but in their relentless pursuit they
still cannot find the felt covered back of a
questioning man.
I shake my head from its haze, cross over

the busy street, and make my way back to the
hotel. Snow begins to flurry, the skies cloud over,
and I hunch my shoulders against the ever-
growing wind. The wind blows into my eyes, they
burn and begin to water, and as I push through
97
the revolving brass handled doors of the hotel, I

rub my tear stained cheeks on my sleeves, and
when I look through clear pupils again, I see the
felt coat–now with speckles of white.
“Benjamin,” my voice is soft, non-

accusatory, yet he turns quickly enough to make
his jacket do a loud slapping noise, and his
eyebrows jump into the middle of his forehead.
He runs a hand through his normally flawless
styled hair and regains his composure with a crisp
smile.
“Finley,” dragging the ending of my name

out comically, “how nice to see you back so
soon,” his voice drowns with sarcasm.
“Yes, perhaps sooner than you expected

given your journey into unfriendly streets?”
98
His already pinked cheeks turn a deep

red, and his cool exterior is lost. He begins a
nervous laugh and runs his hands over the flap of
his long coat and looks hesitantly at me.
“I suppose I have some explaining to do,

don’t I?”
I remember the way I trailed him so fast,

the black coat moving swiftly between people,
never hesitating to read signs, or looking to a
phone for directions.
“Yeah, you do,” my jaw clicks in

aggravation.
Chapter Nine
My annoyance is at an all-time high, and
my wariness over Benjamin grows more concrete.
99
I move past the line of people waiting for the

elevator and look over my shoulder to make sure
he follows my path. Eighteen flights of stairs, and I
lean over the railing to see him trailing several
floors behind me.
Rolling my eyes in irritation, I slide the

shiny silver key card from my pocket and grip the
straps of my bag tightly as I push into the dark
room. My hand slides against the unfamiliar wall
as I search for the light switch, placing the
oversized purse on the ground after I can see my
surroundings. My backpack remains on the chair
where I left it, the zippers pulled down to the left
side of the bag, the front pocket remains slightly
opened.
Pushing my arms from the entrapments of

the leather sleeves, I lift the tightly fitting long
sleeve shirt to inspect my body. Healing better,
but my ribs are still battered with bruises, the
once red welts are now a fading purple shade. As
I’m pulling my shirt back over my colorful ribcage,
100
the door swings open. An out of breath Benjamin

pushes through and heavily sits on the edge of the
king-sized bed. His forehead is covered with a
sheen of sweat, and his chest continues to heave
in an attempt to catch his breath.
“Finley,” he takes another heaving breath,

“I can explain.”
I offer him nothing, staring with a blank

face. He swallows loudly and begins.
“I was born in the States, that is not a lie. I

grew up in a small town in Minnesota and went to
the Florida State for my undergrad. I was a
struggling college student and had to wait tables.
It was a good gig, a fancy restaurant with collars
and ties, but it paid good nonetheless. It was the
summer before my junior year and I was rejected
for more student loans, I had no way to pay for
my school and was running out of options. One of
my coworkers called in sick that night, and I had
to cover for him. Next thing I knew, I was staring
101
into the face of Jack Sullivan, the world-famous

billionaire. He came and ate dinner with different
clients over the course of a few weeks, and upon
his request from the first night on I was always his
waiter.”
He takes another deep breath and shifts

his weight as though uncomfortable.
“He asked me for my opinion on some

matters he had discussed over the course of his
many meals, and thinking I had nothing to lose, I
told him how I felt. Little did I know that he would
offer to pay off my loans and give me a full-time
job traveling the world with him. It felt unreal and
as a twenty-year-old with a dead mother and
missing father I had no reasons at the time to stay
in school. So, I left, and over the ten years I have
been with him I never betrayed his trust, as I
practically owe him my life. But two years ago, I
had to meet with some of Jack’s contacts within
Moscow. All Americans just stationed within the
city. They ran a branch Jack’s investment firm and
102
he needed me to discuss a few meager issues. So,

Jack went to London to bid on the renovations of
a church from the 1500s, and I was sent to
Moscow to basically check off some tasks on his
‘to do’ list and appease some people.”
His hands begin to shake, the corners of

his eyes slightly wet. He pushes off of his knees
and starts to pace slowly across the room. His
hands are buried deep in the pockets of his suit
pants, he stops at the wall of windows that
overlook the city and breaks the silence.
“My father was Russian, I never knew

him, but after my mother died, I found the
photos, and documents of the mysterious man.
She studied abroad in school for a semester, met
him in Finland when he was traveling with friends.
Long story short, they knew their relationship
could never last with countless time zones and an
ocean between them. She didn’t even tell him
that I existed until I was twelve, I found the letters
he wrote to her. He wanted to meet me, for years
103
he asked, and then suddenly the daily letters

stopped. I figured with emails they probably
switched to an easier form of communication but
was never able to find an address. I let it go for
years, but when I had the opportunity to visit
Moscow, I went to the return address on the
envelopes.”
“The man lived in a small apartment, less

than the size of your suite alone on Jack’s yacht. It
was so far from what I was used to, I had lived
inside the lavish world of the Sullivan’s for so long.
But when I stepped inside, it felt like home. Not
the smell, or the walls—but him. His face, his
eyes, the strong features of his face, he was me.
Plus, twenty years or so.”
He pauses, runs his hands through his

normally pristine hair, and takes another
exasperated breath.
“I owe my life to the Sullivan’s; I’d never

leave Jack and his family. But my father is all I
104
have left, so the very few times I find myself in

Moscow I visit him. I know it’s not safe right now,
but he’s ailing, this may have been the last time
I’d ever see him—so I went.”
“Jack knows. Not that he’s my father, but

there is someone of close relation to me that I
visit. I know it’s not much, but I told him before I
left if I wasn’t back by three that there was an
issue.”
I have to stop myself from slamming my

fists into the man across from me, blood surges
through my body, my face heats with anger. Just
as I am about to berate the childish man sitting on
the edge of a well-made bed I stop, memories
flash through my brain, my hands clench, my eyes
begin to sting.
I am laughing, endlessly. My head tilts

towards the sky, the sounds echo around me. He
sips from his mug, behind the red porcelain a grin
spreads across his face. The morning light shines
105
through the diner window behind him, framing

the edges of his body with gold. Shannon moves
towards our booth, balancing the plates of
pancakes, eggs, wheat toast and bacon on her
shoulder. When the piping hot plates reach our
table, I do not hesitate, diving into the carbs and
protein. Maybe if I’d have known that would be
the last trip to Betsey’s with my father, I’d have
savored it a little longer.
I come back to my reality, but now my

hands are unclenched, my jaw is slack, the red hot
feeling vanished.
“Don’t let it happen again,” and with that

I usher the wet coated man out of my room.
___________
A small snap, and I jolt upright, my fingers

coiled tightly around the comforter at my sides,
106
my forehead has a thin sheen of sweat. The clock

blinks a loud 16:30 the papers scattered around
me are mangled and squished under the weight of
my legs. My foggy brain comes back to life, and I
recover a normal heart rate quickly. I lift my legs
and spin across the bed, my feet slam the floor
and I drag my bag across the thick carpet. Sliding
the latest stories of Abram and the company into
my bag, I wedge it between the bed and
nightstand, concealing the bulge with the edge of
the comforter.
A single glance around the pristine room,

and I slide my arms into the thick black coat I’ve
had since senior year. Its elbows are worn, and
the edges of the sleeves are frayed but it has been
covering my back for far too long, one of my few
sentimental pieces.
Walking towards the door, I shove the

wallet containing my most convenient fake ID and
a slew of folded Russian bills deep into my pocket.
Slipping through the doorway my hand slides
107
across cold metal, firmly latched I make my way to

the next door and push into it confines without
hesitation. Benjamin sits in the chair at the corner
of the room, he talks in hushed tones to Jack.
I don’t need any questions, the less they

know the safer they both are. I’m still too
annoyed with Benjamin’s ill-timed visit to his
father to give him any important details.
“I’m leaving for the night, I have plans

elsewhere. I should see both of you tomorrow
morning, you have the evening to yourselves, just
lie low,” my eyes linger on Benjamin who has let
out a deep breath. He seems relieved, maybe that
I have kept his secret, maybe that I haven’t
berated him in front of the boss he so heavily
respects.
Jack nods, I’ve earned his trust. With his

singular movement, I turn preparing for a night of
breathing enemy air, tight dresses, and finding the
world’s most famous missing girl.
108
Chapter Ten
It’s far from what I would have ever
picked for myself, but the elegant green fabric
cascades around my body in a way that feels right.
Arielle has certainly worked her magic, because
you’d never know me to be Finley Harrison. My
hair is straighter than usual, the wide curls frame
my face that is glowing from the expert use of
some makeup. Looking in the mirror I have to
laugh amidst the fear that surrounds this evening.
A week ago, I could have never imagined myself
surrounded by emerald fabric, perfect waves, and
pale pink nails shaped to perfection, yet here I
stand. Arielle gives me one last glance as she
motions for me to spin around her, and with that
places a clutch in my hand, and drapes a massive
fur shawl across my shoulders.
“You are done, may luck be with you,” she

swallows loudly, her eyes do not meet mine, and
109
the frail woman disappears back into the massive

store.
Sighing, I remove myself from the

platform, gathering the length of the dress in my
hands, and leave the warmth of the store, greeted
by the howling wind, cold street lights, and a large
male.
“Myles,” pausing I wrap my hand around

his bicep in a way unfamiliar to me, “Are you
ready?” I question, the ruffles of evergreen fabric
swishing around us.
He swallows in a way that screams

nervous, yet breaks into an easy smile,
showcasing his perfectly white teeth. His round
shoulders are covered in the most expensive coat
I’ve ever seen, and his shoes shine against the
lights of the night.
“I couldn’t be more ready, it isn’t every

night I get to take the Finley Harrison on a date,”
110
he winks, and I have to roll my eyes. No wonder

why Marcus keeps Myles around, his charm and
looks could sway anyone in the business.
He ushers me towards a long, sleek limo,

with a certain hesitation I enter into the vehicle
equipped with a man I do not know driving. He is
blonde turning gray, has high cheekbones, and a
neatly trimmed mustache. Myles must sense my
uneasiness and breaks the silence of the ride.
“Marcus’ dear friend, Ahimd,” he points

towards the front of the vehicle, “he found him
shortly after you left. Was being blackmailed by
some Indian like mafia, and Marcus helped him.
He still feels indebted to Marcus though, so he
helps anywhere that he can.”
Wringing his hands in a nervous circular

motion, he looks at me with flared nostrils and a
clenched jaw.
111
“Similar to Ahmid, I owe Marcus for

saving myself and my family. You are family to
him, so that means I will do whatever it takes
tonight,” he speaks with a low rumble, his stare is
fierce.
I nod curtly, resisting the feelings of

devotion this msn exhibits. If something were to
happen to him tonight, it would be one more
reason for my sleepless nights. One more reason
why I could never live a normal life filled with
college classes, or at the same house I come home
to every night.
We’ve traveled fifteen blocks total, a right

turn, a bear left and six green lights. Only
eighteen minutes have passed, but they seem like
an eternity. Finally, the endless office buildings
stop, and the scenery breaks way to a building
bathed in golden light and ornate columns. The
limos glides into the entryway, and I take a deep
breath, reminding myself this is just for intel.
Myles exits and before I have grasped the door
112
handle, he’s opened it from the outside and

stands with a pleasant smile, offering his hand.
Releasing the handfuls of tulle and silk I didn't
know I was gripping; I grasp his hand and swing
my body from the leather seats.
He leans close, his lips brush my ear as he

whispers, “You’re going to attract attention; Be
anyone but Finley Harrison.”
I don’t understand what he means until I
look up and see too many wandering eyes on us
as we walk inside. I let out a light giggle, as though
Myles just said something funny, rather than
warnings of lying low.
Arielle has certainly outdone herself,

because the further we move into the marble
hotel, the more stares we attract. I’m not used to
this kind of attention, the way everyone here
seems to gravitate in our direction, their curious
eyes feel searing hot, I am uncomfortable, Myles
however is a different story. He smiles and nods
as though he personally knows these business
113
men and women, the musicians, and the actors. I

try to feel more at ease, from the blueprints I
found of the hotel online, I know we are nearing
the ballroom where I can sit in the corner of the
room with less people watching my every move.
A man in a dark blue suit with brown

shoes stands at the corner of the grand staircase, I
accidentally make eye contact and he must see
this as an invitation to speak to me. He begins to
briskly walk towards me, Myles immediately sees
and spins me in a casual manner, yet effectively
places his large stature between me and the man
with a now heated stare.
He leans close again and admonishes me,

“You are Finley, drop it and act like you are any
other young woman here tonight,” his words
anger me even though is right.
A give a sly smile to him that to some

would look flirtatious, but we both know I’m
irritated at him for being right. As we pass
114
through the French doors in the entryway with

arches, I know we are close to the ballroom close
to slightly less heavy air. Just a few more steps, I
count in my head as I politely smile, one, a woman
in a skimpy red dress, two, the floors reflect the
glowing chandelier, three, we turn to the open
doors that reveal countless circular dining tables
and a glossy marble floor.
A man slightly shorter than Myles asks for

our name, and he recites our false identities
without hesitation, and the man nods to someone
that stands behind us. The hair on the back of my
neck stands, but my cool exterior remains, and I
resist the urge to spin and see the threat behind
us. Another man comes in front of me and offers
his hand as Myles arm disappears from
underneath mine.
I look confused at Myles, he begins to

laugh, winks and walks away.
115
“Moya ledi,” his hand remains in the air

and I realize he wants me to take it. Regaining my
composure, I offer him a smile as he guides me
across the room. There are five double doors
including the one we entered into. Three will lead
back into the lobby area by the grand staircase,
and two are exterior doors. He continues walking
towards a table in the corner that is near one of
the doors that leads to the streets. I relax.
Releasing his arm from mine he pulls out my chair
and takes the massive fur shawl from its resting
place on my shoulders. I jolt at his fingertips,
having to remind myself again, this man is not a
threat.
“Ya proshu proshcheniya,” he responds

noticing my quick movement, and leaves.
A quick survey of the room and I see

Myles gliding across the room with two
champagne flutes. I release a breath I didn’t know
I was holding. My eyes scan the room for Abram,
or any of his associates. Too many people, they
116
move about, some at the bar, some dancing,

other at tables, talking, walking, laughing. Loud,
too loud. There’s music, and voices, and fancy
shoes hitting hard floors, and too much. It’s
everything I don’t like in a place I wouldn’t be
caught in on a normal Friday night, but this is no
normal Friday night.
Myles places the flute in front of my and

presses his lips to my temple, cooing Russian
words too close for comfort.
“Again, Angelina,” my fake identity

sounds so normal coming from him, “you need to
start playing the game of devoted wife, and less of
the assassin scanning the room with a face of
steel.”
Taking a large gulp from his glass, he

sticks out his hand for another time this evening,
and I grab hold.
117
“You can see far more moving through

the center of the room that I could ever in this
corner,” I grumble as I move with him towards the
beautiful dance floor.
Even though every eye in the room is on

us again, Myles leads me across the floor in a way
that requires all my attention. The distractions of
those watching are nothing when I’m focusing so
hard on not tripping in sky high heels and the
huge mass of fabric that twirls around us. He pulls
me closer; his large hand covers the small of my
back and his laugh rolls in my ear again.
“I think I have found your weakness

dear,” he nags.
“And I should think to remind you I have

countless ways to make you forget the last seven
minutes of this ridiculousness, so keep your
mouth shut,” I retort.
118
He laughs again but slows his pace,

guiding me across the floor as his eyes scan our
surroundings. I think this whole night could be a
waste, everyone has filtered in and in all the time
we have been circling around, and in the hallways
tonight I have yet to see anyone of importance.
Men in suits, women in gowns, drinks spilling,
outrageous floral displays in the center of the
tables, music that--
“Laugh like I said something absolutely

hilarious, I’m going to make a show of spinning
you, cause I’m quite certain your man Abram is
arguing by the bar,” this time his crisp English
does not leave a word misunderstood.
I tip my head back and attempt the look

of happiness, bliss. As I’m laughing, he spins me as
promised, turns me around the dance floor and
has effectively maneuvered the crowd of people
between us and the supposed Abram. Most girls
would be weak in the knees from his too smooth
moves, but when my eyes lock on the figure of
119
Abram and the too tight pants he argues with, my

knees want to collapse for a different reason.
“Woah,” Myles catches me, his hand

snaking around my waist, “Fin what? It’s him,
right?”
I swallow and cannot believe it. Under my

nose, this entire time, I should have known.
Straightening and pushing against him I try to
move, fast. But not fast enough because he grabs
my wrist and spins me back into him with a vice
grip he isn’t letting go.
“Look. At. Me.”
Each word is pronounced, firm. It matches

his harsh exterior.
“Remember, this is intel only, there is no

reason for you to go kill a man and run away in a
ten-thousand-dollar dress and heels we both
know you can’t walk in, let alone run. So, use your
120
words before you go do something that’ll hurt

way more than just you.”
I shift my hands around his neck and pull

his ear close to mine, “Izabelle’s grandfather Jack?
He has an assistant that is more like a brother at
this point. Has been with him for over fifteen
years. Annoying, I use to think he didn’t think
twice before he spoke, but now I think every one
of his moves was calculated.”
“What does that have to do with

anything?” he whispers back.
“It has everything to do with this,” I

stammered, “because the man arguing with
Abram is his assistant Benjamin Morgan.”
“Go. Now, leave, you can’t be here. These

other guys may not recognize you, but he will,” he
presses a key into my hand and tries to back
away.
121
“8 Nikitsky Boulevard, it’s the townhouse

with red decorative squares and light-yellow
columns, the code is 603N8KLO, this key works for
the next door, I’ll meet you there in fifteen. Lose
any trail before you go there.”
He pressed his lips to my cheek and

smiles, spins me a final time, and I continue my
charade of giggles. He moves in one direction,
closer to Abram and Benjamin, and I move in the
other, to our table with my shawl. I know that if
the door is opened for any longer than three
seconds, alarms sound and my quick escape is
gone.
I’m not surprised to see Myles is the new

center of attention, three women surround him,
but even from across the room I can see the
distress. Shifting the fur around my shoulders
once again, I take a deep breath and push the
knob down. My feet slam against the snowy
sidewalk and I press my body hard against the
door.
122
Silence.
Good.
I do not wait for someone to notice the

girl in evergreen is missing, my eyes adjust to the
darkness and I am off. I know this street, it’s near
Marcus’ a fifteen-minute walk in these shoes and
I’m safe.
A moment to regroup with Myles; a

moment to get to Jack before Benjamin comes
back; a moment to flee another place.
Although I walk through a snowy Moscow

night, chasing the world’s most famous missing
girl, I wonder how soon before me. Before this
group of Russian men set out on the hunt to find
me. The girl all too familiar with new rooms, and
foreign streets. Cause they will come, and sooner
now once Benjamin finds us gone. The will come
123
looking for Finley Harrison, the girl who

disappears.
Chapter Eleven
The building is just as I remember, the last
time I was far less breathless and not in a
ballgown, but nonetheless, she is the same—
relentless dark brick, framed with a flat roof and
chilling, dark tinted windows. The red squares
with the two tan columns make it look less
secretive to the typical passerby. Checking my
surroundings three times before I cross the street
swiftly—one woman in a dark brown coat shuffles
out of a white car three houses down, the tree in
front of Marcus’ warehouse has prematurely lost
its leaves, and two sleek trash cans crowd the
edge of the curb. Pressing the code into the ill lit
squares, I hear a series of clicks, and I press my
entire body against the deceiving door, it slowly
lurches against its hinges. Soundlessly smashing
the heavy door back into place, my hands scrape
124
across the interior searching for the series of bolts

that will give my temporary safety. My right hand
still has the gold key that Myles firmly pressed
into my palm, and I use it on the next door as
instructed.
Red.
Red.
I have to laugh to myself at the Marcus

like room the second door swings into. The plush
red couch, the red curtains whose length tickles
the dark thin boards of wood covering the floor
below them, and the dark brick fireplace that is
covered with red accents. Gathering the gown
from the doorframe, I push it back into place and
release a breath at the second click of safety that
follows.
I’m not stupid enough to turn on the

lights, it looks like the typical black out curtains
and windows are in place, but I want this
125
townhouse to sleep under the cover of darkness

until I can figure out my next step. I make my way
through the living room, into the kitchen area,
there is not typical back door into the alleyway,
but a nondescript car awaits ready. I turn to move
up the stairs, my heels click against the hardwood,
but so far nothing seems out of place.
Nondescript photos hang on the walls, Marcus has
done everything he can to make this secure beast
blend into the streets of Moscow, both inside and
out. A quick survey of the two bedrooms, and
bathroom makes my nerves settle—a sense of
security for a fleeting moment.
The same series of clicks. I press my palms

to the old walls, feeling the vibrations, the weight
of who walks below. Heavy, long strides make
their way through insulation and drywall,
reverberating through my fingertips—Myles. I
make my way back down the steep stairs, my
hands slide against the walls for support, my feet
teeter in the high shoes.
126
“We need to get your man, Sullivan” his

words are breathy and rushed, his flushed face
tells me all I need to know.
“What does Benjamin know?”
“I walked up after you left, pretended as

though I was enthralled with the choices of
alcohol at the bar and listened to them bicker
back and forth like boys. Benjamin,” he pauses for
a moment shaking his head, “he knows you’re
good." In no way does he doubt your ability to
find Izabelle, and he’s afraid you’re catching onto
him. But Mr. Rich and Russian, Volkov… He’s—not
what I imagined. The cool exterior of his press
conference interviews is gone, he’s jittery, he
thinks that you’re a clueless girl, he runs his hands
through his hair too often. But he’s not listening
to whoever is calling the shots, Benjamin just kept
saying that ‘he needed to listen,’ and ‘Izabelle
needed to leave the towers.’ He just kept saying
that he didn’t know that it would come to this.”
127
My mind scurries thinking of what he

meant by the towers. Why does the man who has
been part of one of history’s most famous
kidnappings lose his cool exterior when presented
with a mediocre traitor—
“We need to get Jack,” his eyes are dark,

his shoulders curl inward swelling with frustration,
and the bones in his fingers snap as he shoves
them into his pockets.
I chew the inside of my lip as I consider

our options. There are few, the folds of tulle and
silk, although perfect for a classy Russian ball of
socialites, is not ideal to sneak a billionaire out of
hotel in the center of Moscow. Then comes the
problem of Benjamin, to leave him, but make it
seem like we know nothing—that he is still on our
side. The only thing we have on our side right now
is the fact that Izabelle seems to be safe—Volkov
is breaking the rules to keep her close according
to Myles overheard conversation.
128
“We get him out, tonight.” I push off the

edge of the counter, searching drawers of ladles
and wooden spoons until the world’s most
universal kitchen drawer full of tape, and
screwdrivers, and envelopes, and rubber bands
presents itself. I take one last look at the flowing
gown and make quick work with a pair of scissors.
Taking away everything but the innermost layer of
green silk, I fashion an asymmetrical skirt, and
slide the fur throw off. Myles takes note of my
work and sliding his tuxedo jacket from his
shoulders pushes it on mine. His hands make
quick work of the intricate bowtie, and he
unbuttons the top two buttons of the crisp white
shirt. I run my hands through my hair, scrunching
and fluffing the straight, sleek strands, and
remove the diamond necklace and earrings. We
walk through the first door, and Myles grabs a
long dark coat from the hall-tree that strategically
covers a window. He offers his hand, and we leave
the comfort of red and dark brick.
___________
129
It’s annoyingly hard to appear as a

nonchalant couple, when the clock ticks to get to
the billionaire before the bad guys do. Myles is
annoyingly good at it, his hand shifts from mine,
to the small of my back, to whispering in my ear
when passing the streets full of nightlife.
“From what Marcus tells me, you are

excellent at what you do, but honestly Fin…,” he
pauses and guides me around a drunken line of
college aged kids. “Remember to breathe a little.”
Three girls stumble and laugh together, I

wonder if that would have been me. Short skirts,
and drunken nights on the weekends, but exams
and college credits during the week. Marcus
offered me that life, but I declined.
“This is what I do. I find people, I don’t

blend in with crowd like you do, I disappear. I melt
into shadows and unseen crevices. I am not an
130
actor, but I get the job done,” my words spill out

into the cool air.
“Get ready for a career change,” Myles

feet stop abruptly, and he spins me across
sidewalk onto the patio of a restaurant. The music
is loud, the world blurs, and my feet hurt, but
when I catch sight of the too tight dress pants for
the second time this evening. My hand snakes to
the back of his neck, and he presses me into a
corner of the poorly lit patio area, in a maze of
other dancers I disappear. My back is to the
sidewalk, but Myles eyes do not miss a single
beat. After several minutes of the comforting
corner, we leave again, heels and dress shoes
clicking, racing in the opposite direction of
Benjamin Morgan and his ill kept secrets.
___________
Handing my keycard to Myles, I move past

him and knock lightly on the door next to my
131
room. Pressing my ear to the door, I hear the

rustle of turning covers and padding feet though
the cheaply built door. The deadbolt latch squeaks
and the brassy handle moves, swinging open to
Jack’s face. His eyes are tired, the dark circles
even more pronounced. I slide inside and begin
gathering everything in sight.
“We need to leave, I’ll explain, but right

now I need you to move quick and trust me.”
His body moves slow, even for his sixty-

year-old frame, he is not processing the
information until he sees the empty, made bed
beside his.
“Benjamin, he’s— “
“Gone, I’ll explain later, get your shoes,

and coat. Where is your phone?”
132
He slides over to the nightstand and

unplugs the device from the thin black cord. I turn
it off and shove it into my pocket—a future
problem. He doesn’t question my motives, I’ve
been so close too many times for Jack to not trust
me now. I scrawl a note and leave it on the
dresser next to the hotel phone.
“I have found her, Switzerland.

Call ask for Nina.
She’ll tell you where to meet us.
I hope your father is worth it.”
It sounds like the perfect amount of

irritation. It sounds, natural, it sounds like me. I
grab the bags from Jack and swear under my
breath at the newly formed blisters on my toes
and heels. Myles stands in the hall, waiting. Jack’s
eyebrows crinkle together, the age lines looking
like caverns in his face.
“Who— “
133
“This is Myles, Jack. And we know where

to look for your granddaughter,” once more he
looks dazed, a lack of sleep and his age pulls at
the fibers of Jack Sullivan.
Myles breaks the silence, “Benjamin

Morgan is in connection with Abram Volkov, sir—
“
But he doesn’t finish his sentence,

because the elevators open and a well-dressed
man steps out, pushing his suit jacket to the side,
and revealing a shining gun shoved into his
waistband. A gun stamped with a familiar Celtic
knot design.
“Run! I yell as my shoes goes flying and

Myles drags Jack past hotel doors, heavy
footsteps following on the evergreen carpet.
Chapter Twelve
134
Jack moves slow, his body is not reacting,

he hasn’t seen the Celtic symbol three times in his
life to know it’s ominous feel, or rather maybe he
has just never given Benjamin’s hand tattoo much
thought. I grab his forearm and drag him from
sight of the man, a loud cracking and a heavy thud
tells me Myles modelesque form is not just for
show. In a rushed decision I kick the too high, toe
pinching shoes from my feet, I don’t stop to watch
them tumble down the narrow stairwell.
Pulling Jack upward he resists my vice like

grip around his too thin wrists. His eyes are full of
confusion, but even more so they speak every
fear he has held back from me. From the guilt of
letting his granddaughter go on her own that day,
to the still settling realization that his most
trusted partner has traded for another inner
circle.
“Up, now!” If Myles didn’t completely

murder the man, he’ll expect us to go down. It’s
135
much safer to go up and hide, rather than run

blindly--and barefoot--into the night.
Unlike Benjamin so many other times, he

doesn’t question. His Adam’s apple bobs twice,
but in a split second his feet are tumbling one in
front of the other following me higher, higher,
higher. Four flights of stairs, a total of forty-eight
steps and I duck into the next hallway. My feet
scrunch under the green carpet, and I have to
remind myself that hygiene is not of the top
concern right now.
Creeping on the balls of my feet, I slink

down the hallway, across ugly tan paint and light
fixtures that look even more ancient than the
similar styled carpet. My hands slide in front of
me, and with every nudge of a nonmoving door I
become even more panicked, just one, one, one,
one, one--click. I pull Jack into what I think must
be a sort of janitor's closet and run my hands
across prickly plastering. A single light bulb
136
illuminates the room, buckets, mops, sheets,

towels, three vacuums, a series of extension
cords, and a plethora of cleaning supplies with
Russian labels have all found a home in the dingy,
stale smelling closet. Everything is intricately
stacked and stored, leaving just enough room for
the door to swing inside, I do not touch anything.
“How? How did you know, the man with

the gun? You reacted so fast to him, wha--” he
just shakes his head, running his hands through
his hair.
I have to chuckle, “Well I mean, usually if

there’s someone in the room with a gun hanging
off of their belt, they are usually trying to kill me,
so I run. But in this case, his gun had a knot
design. I saw it first on Benjamin’s hand when I
met you in the Homer harbor, it meant nothing to
me at the time. But then in Magdan, the alley
where I was beat?” I pause waiting for him to
acknowledge that his brain was still functioning in
137
the poor air quality of this cleaning dungeon.

“Well those black coated men came back and
were looking for something. Kept fighting over it,
but eventually left. As I was crawling from my
hiding space, I saw a glint of metal, and there was
an intricate knife with the same design. It’s their
calling card, a way to identify their members.”
Shaking his head, he slumps against the

wall, and a look of pure anguish crosses over his
face. “I remember when he got it, I thought
nothing at the time, it wasn’t like I ever had some
sort of dress code for Benjamin. It was about four
months before--” his voice hitches, and I once
again see the grieving grandfather under the cloak
of authoritative businessman. “Before she
disappeared. He was in Lithuania for the week,
meeting with several different clients from across
Europe. Odds and ends, nothing that I even
needed to be present for.”
138
“I suppose now it seems foolish to think

that he stayed for the entire time. All I know is
that every client remains loyal to my company,
and Benjamin came back with a bandaged hand.”
I don’t say anything but stop to think of

the logistics. It’s incredibly possible, Lithuania to
Moscow. Schedule all the meetings in the first
part of his trip, and then he has at least two and a
half to three travel days to pledge his allegiance in
Moscow, and then return to Jack as a traitor. But
his motive doesn’t make sense, how did he find
these people, and why did he want to? Did they
find him?
“How is your relationship with Benjamin?

I understand you basically gave him a life all those
years ago, but what about now?” I question, an
attempt to draw together fragmented pieces of
this man’s life.
139
“I never thought anything was amiss. Even

after that trip, nothing changed. Given recently
he’s been a bit agitated, sometimes even
aggressive about small things. I still don’t think he
could really be involved Fin, I mean he’s my oldest
business confidante. He’s been here through so
much, and I just--”
“There was a high-profile ball at the Ritz

tonight. Socialites from all around the world. I
found a sheet with the place, date and time
scribbled, in the abandoned town after Magdan. I
followed my instincts, and an old friend got Myles
and I in--he was there Jack. He wasn’t just hanging
around, he was arguing with Volkov… About
Izabelle, he--”
“He’s negotiating!” he spits his words,

unbelieving. “There is no doubt in my mind--you
may be good at your job Finley, but Benjamin
would never.”
140
It’s the first time I have seen this part of

Jack, a part of him that doesn’t blindly follow my
orders, that doesn’t trail across nations behind
me like a wounded puppy. His granddaughter, his
greatest joy is missing, and I’m here trying to tell
him that the only other person who has remained
unchanged, capable, and undeniably loyal for
years, is the exact person responsible for the
worst months of his life. I bite the inside of my
cheek, and my jaw makes a quick snapping noise.
“He has called the shots from the start, he

contacted me only because he thought I wasn’t
capable. He never thought that Finley Harrison,
some young clueless girl, would be able to track
down this— “I don’t even know the word for what
you call Volkov and his men. “These people. So,
he takes me on, but they’re messy. They leave
stuff in alleys, the drive cars that leave traces,
they rush out of buildings and leave paper traces.
They are messy,” I repeat.
141
“Why do you think he was yelling when

we got to Sinegorye? Sure, some of it might have
been anger, but really, he was trying to give them
just enough time to leave the abandoned
apartment complex. Why he insisted on driving
while we both slept? Why he leaves your hotel
room at late hours, giving some sob story of a
long-lost father? Why does he insist on knowing
what my every thought is?”
His fingers rub across his eyes, the knot

into fits and he looks much like a child trying to
ward off the remnants of a nightmare full of
monsters and darkness. He opens his mouth, as if
he planned to retort my comments, but three
sharp taps sound and he jumps, backing into a
neatly stacked tower of plush white towels. My
hand slides against the brass knob and my eyes
squint at the new sources of light, all much
harsher than the single bulb hanging from the
ceiling of our current dwelling. Myles lip is split
down the right side, and his right shoulder has a
142
deep cut, bright red oozes from the opening and

I’m reminded of the matching wounds these men
left on my abdomen. I wince and drag yet another
body into the already too cramped closet.
“They had all intentions of killing you here

tonight,” Myles began, his eyes piercing into Jack,
the blood loss having no effect on his articulation
of the danger that awaits.
“The man had no IDs, no cellphone, no

keys for a car, or house, but he had your photo.
The hotel, and room number scrawled on a sheet
of crisp white paper,” he pauses and shifts his
focus to me. “No doubt given by Benjamin,” his
eyes shift to Jack again, but he refuses to look at
him. Jack pushes further back into the columns of
towels, more complexly built than the labyrinths
of the ancient world. Myles grabs him by the
elbows, forcing him to acknowledge Myles’ next
words, “Jack! Listen to me, they have Izabelle and
they are willing to kill you. They don’t want your
143
hefty rewards, they don’t want stock in your

company, or a lavish vacation house in some
exotic location around the world. This is pure
revenge. These men are terrorists.”
His knees buckle, the towels come

crashing down much unlike the still standing
pyramids. Myles winces as he reaches to catch
him, and as I pick up the increasingly ailing
billionaire from the ground, I realize if something
isn’t done soon, there might be another three
bodies to add to the growing tally--including mine.
Chapter Thirteen
I don’t ask where Myles left the man who
carried the gun donned with a Celtic knot, at this
point his body seems irrelevant. They know who I
144
am, and they know I’ve traced their every move,

what is one body left in the halls of a hotel in
Moscow?
Just an hour ago, we blended in the

streets as a couple, no one gave a second thought
to the woman with her arm linked in another’s--
the couple who changed quicker than a
chameleon, always blending. Unfortunately, the
trend does not continue, we are no longer the
couple in love.
I am the girl in a ragged dress with an

unconscious old man slung across my shoulder
blades.
Myles is the giant man with a split lip, an

open shoulder wound spewing redness, an arm
sagging from pain, and a grimace on his face.
145
Creeping through the alley behind the

hotel, I take purposeful steps. The darkness coats
our tracks for the time being, but the streetlights
glow ahead--an ominous sign of what awaits, the
ability to see and be seen. My feet ache across the
chilling blacktop, I can feel my toes sink into the
harsh crevices with every weighted step.
“The Art Theatre--” Myles shudders with

his few words spoken and gripping his bicep tight
to his side he regains control. “The Art Theatre, I
have a car there, can we make it?”
I think of the quickest--and least visible--

route. It’s not far, only a few blocks, but when the
world’s most famous group of well-trained
assassins has made their priority to hunt you
down, things get complicated quick. I can’t leave
them here together, right outside of the hotel
where Myles bullet wound originated, it would be
asking for murder. But the three of us together
146
can’t walk in the same direction and not draw

every eye in this city to our sad trio.
My eyes search for sanctuary, my brain

searches for a solution--and amidst the danger of
black coated men, bullet wounds, and foreign
words, I find a smile breaking across my still
makeup coated face. Bright green graffiti grows
neon in the night, “Malen'kiye vory povesheny, a
velikiye ubegayut.” “Little thieves are hanged, but
great one’s escape”.
But the spray-painted phrase doesn’t float

above the ground on old brick. No, it hangs like
the humidity on an unbearable summer day,
pointing directly to the mismatched bricking.
It’s an entirely different shade, the mortar

doesn’t come close to lining up, and even better
it’s marked with a circle containing five heads. The
Decembrist revolt of 1825. My heart swells in
147
anticipation, I know these men. I studied some of

their tactics several months ago, deep in files of
the Federal Government, they were famous for
being in every place at once--famous for their
intricate tunnel system underneath the city that
has been kept a secret, buried deep in
confidential filing cabinets and computers ever
since their construction.
I drop Jack, letting his limp body rest

against the building, and my fingers begin to
rapidly trace the emblem. A nose, lips, hair,
repeated five times--and then, a crevice. My
finger slides between the stone, and with a hard
pull, the system of brick work makes a slow
creaking noise and breaks way to a gaping black
hole.
“Fin? Wha--”
148
“Myles! This is our ticket, we don’t even

need to risk the car at the Art Museum. These
tunnels, I studied them a while ago! They were
built by a group of men who led a revolution in
the 1800s. It’s an intricate maze of tunnels that
runs underneath the entire city, and eventually
lead out.”
“Listen to yourself! It’s a maze, this is

asking for death Fin. If anyone still uses these, we
are dead, and Izabelle is basically dead with us.”
“No, the ring leader, Muravyov, he wasn’t

just a revoltist, but an absolute mastermind.
Unfortunately, many of his followers were
uneducated soldiers looking for a better life. So,
he made his tunnels intricate but also to be used
without any map. If you keep your right hand on
the wall the entire time, the tunnels will lead you
out of the city,” and with that I slide my body
through the hole into the darkness of the tunnels
that await.
149
___________
I try not to think about the diseases I risk

with open wounds on my feet, walking through a
two-hundred-year-old labyrinth. Myles breath has
grown more ragged, and his shirt he has now
entirely removed, it’s slung over his good
shoulder coated with blood and sweat. Jack is still
slung over mine, and even though it has been no
longer than an hour since he fell into the tower of
towels, my body becomes weaker from his extra
weight with every step. I think of the cobwebs and
rats I’m dragging him through and remind myself
his lack of consciousness is better for the both of
us.
My feet are caked with blood and dirt, my

lipstick and eyeshadow smeared, and the once
beautiful gown in ragged. The bricked tunnel
continues to grow colder, and I question my rash
decision to enter its depths. If this doesn’t work, if
Muravyov made a mistake all those years ago, we
150
are dead, but the same dead that we would have

been if we’d stayed above ground. I continue
trekking, my fingers scratched and bloody match
my feet, my lips are cracked, and my teeth rip the
skin from them in an act of nervousness.
And suddenly… my hands meet the most

beautiful right angle. The mismatched stones and
brick create a welcoming corner, and five faces
stare back at me. The end. I trace the emblem in
the same way, and again the bricks shift, and the
blinding light hurts my eyes. I crawl out to the
brightness of a full moon, and the calm of a thick
forest--the outskirts of the city. I owe a Russian
Revoltist my life.
As I look back to Myles and a slightly

conscious Jack, I know it won’t be long until Jack
ends up crazy, and Myles dead from loss of blood.
Muravyov may have got me out of the city limits,
but now Fin Harrison has to get us to safety.
151
___________
This won’t be easy, it’s by far one of my

worst ideas, but this is the only idea. I don’t have
shoes, at this point I have less fabric from my
dress than what a one-piece swimsuit would
cover and I’m bleeding--but nonetheless I stick my
thumb up and try to put on my most friendly face.
I’m shivering worse now, the adrenaline is
running low, I am in desperate need of an
unsuspecting driver.
Slowly the glowing headlights come into

view, first just a dot in the distance, but they grow
exponentially. The black suburban comes closer
and begins to slow, slow, slow… Stop.
The tinted window rolls down and I can’t

help but smile at my luck, the greasy haired man
is a creep, but his offer is too good to pass up. I
enter the car, and as he stares at me like I am
152
meat, my hands find the collar of his jacket, and in

seconds, the man is no longer a threat. I walk to
the other side of the car, and drag his large frame
from the seat, around the car and into the woods.
I trade his too large body for Jack’s feeble one and
Myles follows. The dark and tinted car is a
present. No one sees the mismatched trio caked
in blood, and for this I smile.
___________
I sit at the foot of the bed; I have now

gone fifty-two hours without sleep and the instant
coffee tastes far too good. My body is clean, my
wounds dressed, Jack is finally awake, and after
some makeshift car surgery, Myles blood loss is
no longer an issue. The motel at the edge of
Belarus did not ask for ID, or why I looked near
death. They accepted the wad of bills and gave us
clean sheets.
153
“We lost them,” Myles begins. “We know

that Benjamin is on their side, sure, but we have
no idea what the next move is.”
“But that,” I retort, “we do. Volkov? He

isn’t letting Izabelle out of his sight.”
“You don’t know that, we need to--”
“He hasn’t left her yet. After the weird

conversation you reiterated, I decided to look up
where exactly the press has spotted the man. He
was in Italy, Sarzana, at the same time that she
went missing. Only an hour away. In Magdan?
There are photos of him in a nearby town of Ola,
supposedly visiting a relative. He was in Moscow,
we both saw him. He wears her ring, and he
wouldn’t let Benjamin take her from ‘the towers’.
Volkov has an infatuation with Izabelle, he won’t
be anywhere that she isn’t.”
154
“So, this means, we find Volkov, and we

find Izabelle.”
“Exactly,” I reply.
Chapter Fourteen
For the second time in a week, my feet
are in uncomfortable heels, and a billowing skirt
flows from my waist tickling the tops of my calf
muscles. A large hat and sunglasses expertly cover
my face from recognition, a mask that once again
blends me effortlessly into the surroundings.
Only a six-hour drive from Cinque Terre,

Terracina seems to close to the start of this all.
The buildings are less colorful, but the streets
bustle in the same way. People mill about in the
early September air; the humid air feels heavy.
Sitting in a rod iron chair, I absentmindedly trace
the edge of my dainty tea cup. My head is bowed,
155
to a passerby my sunglass covered eyes would be

studying the open novel--but I turn the page every
fifty-seven seconds, without ever reading a word.
I sit in the corner of the tent outside Caffe del
Duomo, my back faces the cool brick of the aging
building. I push my glasses back up my nose and
they slide with my face that perspires in the heat.
A church dome several blocks away rise

above the older buildings. The sun makes the
small ornamented lantern cast a shadow across
the ground, 13:00. I close the novel, dog-earing a
page in the middle of a book that I have never
read. Crossing back over the open doorway, I play
the small teacup onto a cart and move from the
confines of the low-ceilinged cafe.
He wears a white hat, it has a short stiff

brim and a thick black band. Even though the heat
and humidity continue to rise, his plaid dress
pants and light blue button shirt fit him. The top
several buttons hang open, a typical fashion of
156
the wealthy Italian man. He wears three rings on

each hand, to most a fashion statement--to me a
way to make a hit to the jaw so much worse. Even
with the dark sunglasses, and casual walk I know
he stares at me.
Making my way across the sidewalk, I

walk directly towards the man in the perfectly
tailored pants. My back is to another though--but
I know that there is an older man with a freshly
shaved faced biking behind me. I know that he
will ring his bell, and I will stay oblivious. So, when
his handlebar tips into my side and I lose my
balance, I am not frightened. My book goes flying,
and the slew of notes tucked into the pages of the
hardback go spilling.
Jack Sullivan? He yells and Italian “Sorry,”

and continues on.
157
Myles? He helps me gather the scribbled

notes of nonsense, slipping a slightly yellowed
paper in the middle of crisp white ones. Everyone
else in the small corridor thinks nothing of the
encounter, but as he stands and adjusts his white
hat with a black band, I know that this encounter
is so much more than a man losing control of a
bicycle.
Continuing on my path, Myles on his, we

move away from each other--but the secrets of
what we share on the yellowing paper remain
with me.
___________
I am in a room of framed drawings, my

sunglasses now off inside the building, I keep my
gaze directed at the small sculpture on the
ground. My curls cascade around my face.
158
But the most interesting thing is not the

ancient sculpture from the Roman Era, but the
most remains of what looks to be an ancient
Roman pediment.
To most the swirls would be beautiful, a

work of art. But if Myles’ note hadn’t made it
clear already, I would have recognized them in an
instant. The Celtic knot design I’ve seen far too
many times. Abram Volkov isn’t here for the
beautiful beaches and cute cafes--there is
something much more in the small town between
Naples and Rome.
I transform, swaying my hips and putting

on my most flirtatious smile. Approaching the
man who stands in the corner, I bring out an
American southern drawl and smile.
159
“Do you,” I twirl my hair around my

pointer finger that is pointed a bright pink color,
“happen to know the history of this artifact?”
The young blond man is all too eager to

answer, I’m guessing the few people that come to
this small museum do not care enough to
understand the history of the pediment.
“An American! I hear Texas?” he

questions.
I smirk--my weeks spent in Texas have

come in handy once again. “Born and raised,” I
reply.
“Well,” his accent flows, “the piece is

fairly typical for the time period. The “teeth” that
come across the edges, and the marble material.
But what is specific to this piece in particular, is
the crest in the center. The Antonius family, they
160
had quite the reach--their noble money made

them incredibly powerful. This was on the front of
their palace in this region, it had over twenty
rooms and was only considered a ‘weekend
getaway.’ The family eventually had an internal
feud, one side went Protestant and the other
stayed Catholic. You can only imagine what
happened. The Catholic side had control of the
money and banished the Protestants. Fortunately,
the Terracina palace was not often used, and they
sought refuge here. It was long before the
Catholic side of the family caught wind of this and
hired assassins in the middle of the night to come
and attack.”
“Quite a few actually escaped and carried

out the Protestant Antonius name. Eventually
their numbers grew, but most switched names,
married off, or went into hiding to escape the
wrath of the others.”
161
He begins to laugh; the sound is warm. “If

you look the name up online, there are some
great conspiracy theory articles actually.”
I scrunch my eyebrows, “Conspiracies?”
“Oh yes, all sorts of great things! That the

long lost Antonious Protestants have banned
together in modern day to take down the
Catholics once and for all. Some have even had
theories of who the Catholics are, comparing
ancient descriptions to modern day famous
people. One of my favorites is the idea of the
Queen of England, although head of the
Protestant Anglican church, is a Catholic
Antonius.”
I smile and laugh as well, even though the

news chills my bones.
162
“That’s absolutely fantastic,” I giggle,

covering my mouth with my hand.
But my mind races.
Flashes of Jack’s cross ring--complete with

Jesus still depicted on the cross.
Of the bible that sat on his desk in the

yacht.
Of his clasped hands in the backseat of

cars.
Could it really come down to this? Almost

two thousand years ago? An ancient rivalry of
Protestants and Catholics?
Chapter Fifteen
163
There are many things that you can be

prepared for in life. I am prepared for the freefall
that comes with jumping from a plane moving at
180mph. I am prepared for how to create a
makeshift IV and stitch my own wound.
But I was not prepared to see Benjamin

Morgan standing on the other side of the
cobblestone courtyard. I was not prepared to
have someone who I once thought to be so dull,
find me—the girl who is notorious for
disappearing into the cracks and crevices of
everyday life.
I think of my options, my still sore feet,

and flowy skirt won’t make it far, especially when
running through streets filled with laid back
people. The rushing girl will be noticed, and even
worse—she’ll be remembered.
He doesn’t want Jack.
164
He doesn’t know Myles.
He wants me.
I am the one who knows the next step

before they do, I am the one who traced the
disappearing footsteps from Italy to Russia, across
all terrain, in every type of weather imaginable. I
am the one who curled in the alleyway unseen, I
am the one who knows.
So, before he learns of the close proximity

of Myles and Jack, before he tries to hurt them in
an effort to gain me—I concede. I walk towards
him, and stop, hands raised to my head.
“Never did I think I would see the

infamous Finley Harrison with her hands raised,”
his lips raised in a crooked smirk, and he pulls the
sunglasses from the bridge of his nose.
165
“Never did I think a beloved family friend

could rival Benedict Arnold for the universe’s
biggest deserter,” I reply with a sharp edge to my
words.
His eyes flash, the same anger is there

that I’ve seen before. He doesn’t like being called
a traitor and it brings a smile to my lips. He begins
to shout, he grabs my bicep in a vice like grip, and
I know the bruises that will be there in the coming
days. But I don’t listen to his shouting voice. I do
not feel the grip of his hands. I do not feel the rays
of sun that beat down on my face and the
cobblestone brick. I do not notice the weird look
on the woman dressed in a white blouse. But I do
notice the two men behind her, racing towards
me.
If Myles gets to hi, Benjamin will be dead.

Myles will not think twice about disposing
another body to keep me safe. Marcus’ orders--I
don’t doubt what he will do to keep his word.
166
But if I leave, if I let Benjamin think that

he has secured the target--me, well then, I’m in.
I’m trapped among the same people who have
Izabelle. I have the opportunity to hear the
whispered secrets and find the hidden
passageways of Volkov and his men. I have the
opportunity to get close to him, to understand the
change in his demeanor, and the reason why he
won’t leave her out of his sight.
So really there isn’t a choice.
I do not think twice.
My hand grips his forearm and with a

quick twist of the wrist, his grip on my bicep is
flung. Back up, I kick my shoes off and begin
running--knowing that he will follow. I don’t race,
I don’t move so fast that I fear my feet will trip
over themselves. No, I allow Benjamin to think
that he is keeping up with me, I allow him to race
167
behind me while the image of Myles and Jack in

the courtyard becomes a distant memory. When I
come to the concealed alcove, I allow him to
catch the back of my blouse, ripping me back
towards him. I allow him to wrap his arms across
my shoulder blades and press my back into his
chest. I allow him to push the rough cloth across
my mouth and nose.
I allow myself to fall.
Chapter Sixteen
My face is pressed against something
chilling, my jaw aches like I’ve lost a fight and my
feet are full of pins and needles from being in an
uncomfortable position for far too long. Slowly I
begin to push myself from a cold, steel floor.
168
This is pain like I’ve never felt before. It is

not like I have lost a fight—I know the pain of
broken ribs and open wounds.
No. This pain is so much more, I collapse

back to the cold steel, unable to will my body into
an upright position.
Remember, remember, remember…
The courtyard. Benjamin. I was running. I

remember the feeling of my feet pushing against
the rough cobblestone in the small town. I
remember the feminine way that my skirt
billowed around my not so feminine strides.
My eyelids begin to sag, my body wants to

give in to the endless I remember the scratchy
material pressed firmly against my mouth.
169
But while the drugged cloth explains the

way my body feels a tired it has never
experienced before, that doesn’t explain the
purple and black marks that litter my legs—or the
split cheek that has old, dried blood around its
edges. Groaning, I again attempt to move my
body from the odd comfort of bone chilling steel.
Snapping. Cracking. Popping. The sounds

of bones that haven’t moved in far too long. I
press my palms to the floor and push myself into
a standing position. The edges of my vision begin
to go fuzzy—my cracked lips and throat are in a
desperate need of water. But after a quick
examination of basic functions, I seem to be in
tack. My body is decorated in a purple and
greenish fashion, the once beautiful beach dress is
slashed, frayed, and spotted with blood, and I can
only imagine what my face and hair look like
without a mirror—but for the most part, I am in
tack.
170
While I can understand my body, the

room around me is unknown. No windows, a
single door that has an odd rectangle at eye
level—I’m guessing a two way mirror. Not a chair,
no food, no source of water.
I try to remain inconspicuous, to look like

a lost and battered girl, not Fin Harrison assessing
her surroundings.
I wipe at the corners of my eyes. I curl my

shoulders into my frame, I become small. Weak.
The least intimidating version of myself that I can
become. In these moments where I establish a
weakness so unfamiliar yet believable, I see it. The
small camera, not in the corner as you may
suspect, but latched to the ceiling halfway along a
wall. A perfect one hundred and eighty degree
view of me and my new confines.
171
My new confines—complete with the

most beautiful ceiling tiles I have ever seen. I’m
sure they were originally a crisp white, a cutting
design of architecture upon their birth. But now
stained with age old water leaks that pooled
across their surface. Separated by metal strips
that have seen far better days, these porous
ceiling tiles are beautiful.
Because even though I have plans to learn

their secrets, I see a way out if things go bad—
something I thought impossible. I quickly look
from the white squares, the last thing I need is for
this shred of freedom to be taken from my grasp.
Clip, clop. Clip, clop. Clip, clop. Someone heavy

walks with an uneven gait down the outside of
the door—another bonus, the steel confines are
far from soundproof.
But when the door swings open, I jump in
a perfectly planned surprise, curling my body and
falling to the ground. A massive man, clearly one
172
of the muscles behind this secret operation. He

too is dressed in the supposed company uniform:
all black. The tight shirt stretched taut over a body
that is sculpted in a way that makes me thing
Michelangelo has been reincarnated in modern
day. His face is hard, bushy, untamed, thick
eyebrows, and a hard-set jaw add to his persona.
He doesn’t speak but wraps one massive hand
around my bicep and rips me from the floor. I’m
left to wonder if this man is where my mysterious
bruises have come from.
Normally I would fight, I would slip my
legs through his, and have him on the ground
before he understood what I was doing. But I am
not here to be the savior. No, I am here to learn
what is driving Abram and bring Izabelle back. I
am not here to hurt; I am here to save.
He wretches both arms behind my back,
tightening zip-ties until blood flow is severely
limited. I wince as the skin pinches, and he throws
a dark mask of sorts over my head. But it doesn’t
end here, as I verbally assault this man, he throws
173
my up and over his shoulder—taking away my

ability to interpret length with walking.
This man is good, he knows what he is
doing. He varies his steps; uneven strides make
this far more difficult to judge how far we have
been walking. He takes the corners with wide
turns; I barely feel the difference as we walk in a
circle three times. It smelled wet, musky when we
first left and now it gets cleaner, fresher. Up. We
are going up. His pace remains the same, but I feel
his heart rate pick up, his breathing less even.
From musky dampness to clean air.
Controlled breathing to a speeding heartrate. He
walked in three small circles while carrying me,
which tells me that they had me underground, but
also in an effort to confuse me on the obviously
small space, he walked me in circles. Wherever I
am, it’s not a secure location.
Soon his chest regains its monotonous
rise and fall. There is a chill to the air, it almost
feels like a Spring day, where the grass would be
covered with dew. But the last time I was
coherent it was early September, and I a sheen of
174
sweat across my upper lip. I shiver, and wish for

the comfort of a frayed, forest green colored
sweatshirt—and for just a moment, I am
transported.
Back to the small cabin and the smell of
brewing coffee. Back to a time where the smell of
pizzas and warmth of brick ovens gave a sense of
peace—of home… Back to—
“Walk,” the air leaves my lungs as I am
flung onto the ground, carpet? I let my mind
wander for an instant, and suddenly I have lost
track of where the large man’s steps have taken
me. He rips the hood from my head, roughly
pushing me forward before I can register to the
new source of light.
My bare feet shuffle, trying to regain a
sense of my surroundings while still remaining
cowering. Sixteen steps down a hallway that is
extravagantly ornamented in gold and red. I’ve
lost feeling in the hands that remain tightly
cinched behind my back, and my shoulders ache
in a way that makes me think I must have been
bound for hours even though I know it’s been no
175
more than five minutes. He continues to walk

behind me, his presence felt like the way you feel
a storm in the strange breeze beforehand.
“Left,” his thick accent reverberates down
the long hallway and I immediately twist my body
to another hallway almost identical to the last. He
pushes his body past mine, stopping at a door so
massive I feel like royalty should lie behind its cold
façade. But when his burly, thick finger wrap
around the antique crystal knob, I know there will
be no king—just Abram.
The doors release a cry, its hinges worn.
While the sound is unpleasant, it isn’t why the
look of shock momentarily crosses my face, nor
the smug looking young man sitting in the red and
gold throne. But the way the room is painted with
white and a beachy teal color. The golden trim has
made its way from the hallway into the confines
of the small room. Light pierces through the two
lace curtains covering the windows, and best of all
a painting on each side of the room—scenes of
jungles and animals. I know exactly where I am,
and I know exactly where Izabelle will be found.
176
___________
“And so, I guess you could argue that

murder and treachery paid off for Count Grigory,”
Mrs. Harris laughs and fumbles with the clicker,
the projector switched to an elevation of a
beautiful castle.
“Catherine the Great will reward him for

assassinating Tsar Peter III by recreating the one
modest home.”
Another click and a room of teal and gold

that is far too gaudy for my taste appears.
“And while you may think the medivedal

castle ornamented with classical style still is too
fortified, the inside—in particular the throne
room—is delicate and places an emphasis on the
artwork of the time.”
177
___________
I never could have imagined the day that

Mrs. Harris’ tenth grade World History class would
have amounted too much. A class of
memorization, and supplying verbatim answers of
names, places, and important events on short
answer exams. But as I look at the teal building, I
had only ever saw through the pixelated images
produced by a less than adequate computer, I can
barely contain myself.
“You know,” his voice is unlike when I

have heard him speak before, the thick Russian
voice gone. “I wondered who the girl in the
emerald green was. Because although you were
the most beautiful woman in the room that night
at the Ritz, no one knew you, and you seemed to
not want to know anyone. You just kept floating
around, the room—and then suddenly gone. Just,
like, that,” he adds an emphasis to each word.
178
Purposeful. Intimidating. My jaw clenches, I don’t

make a sound as I stare back in defiance.
“Did you think I wouldn’t put the pieces

together? You silly little girl, you are nothing.”
I have to remind myself this isn’t a time to

show my card, to show him that I am, by far, the
most dangerous person he will ever lie his eyes
on.
I have seen Abram before, in a hundred

other forms. He lives in cities, and the most
remote places of the world. He has a persona of
absolute class and beauty, but underneath he is
so much less. He kidnaps, he steals, he operates
under the impression that the world was created
for his sole enjoyment—and they best thing about
the Abram Volkov’s of the world?
179
They love to talk, and they love to talk

about themselves.
“I told him, easy when he asked,” he

begins with only a moment of silences spread in
the space between us.
“I know quite a lot about Jack Sullivan and

his company. Worked for him quite a bit, good
guy. But the fact is he is quite the weaver of
words, a true businessman. Talented—talked me
into selling him gold at a price so low it would
make you sick.”
My eyebrow twitches just slightly, this

isn’t the worrisome man that I know.
“Ah, he must have left that detail out.

Hm. Well… You might guess why he wanted to be
such great friends and how detrimental this was
to myself and my career. We were in the red
180
because of the document I signed formulated by

Sullivan’s lawyer. The red because I was careless. I
was being forced into leaving the company I so
dearly loved, the company that provided me with
the lavish lifestyle I have become accustomed to.
So, they gave me an ultimatum, hurt Jack Sullivan
in a way that he could never come back from—or,
and I quote ‘prepare for the inevitable’. Yeah,
that’s right, they were willing to murder me for
signing a document wrote up by a sleazy
businessman’s lawyer. Russians are far from the
cushiness that America provides.”
I break my silence as he regains his

breath, “What will kidnapping his granddaughter
do to save what you lost?”
“Oh no, sweet girl. I’m not kidnapping

her. Here soon the papers around the world will
tell the story of the billionaire’s daughter that ran
away to be with her true love. I’m not killing her,
that would do me no good. No, I plan to marry
181
her, making her assets mine with a perfectly

worded document. I will end this how it started.”
I gasp at the sheer ridiculousness of his

plan, “And what makes you think that this would
ever work, that Izabelle will marry you? That
lawsuits won’t be filed at the marrying of sixteen-
year-old girl? She has no reason to leave her
grandfather, go halfway around the earth and
hide until she marries you.”
“Ah yes, see but that is where you are

wrong. With judiciary consent, she can marry at
sixteen, and if you think I’d let a little paperwork
get in the way of billions of dollars and too many
assets to count, you’re wrong. I know who to
bribe and how, and I know every possible bump
that could occur. If Izabelle refuses, I told her we
will murder her precious little grandfather. She is
quite willing to give her life for his incase you are
wondering.”
182
He is beyond pleased, his perfectly white

teeth gleam in the bright light of the room. He
thinks that he has won, that I don’t have the
upper hand. But I’ve been playing the scared
girl—and now it’s time for me to be who I’ve
always been, Fin Harrison—the girl who
disappears.
Chapter Seventeen
He thinks that he has won, that I am not
the detail-oriented chameleon I am know to be—
but I grin back with what I am sure is an equally
chilling smile. I don’t think of the way my bones
cracked when I got up off the ground, I don’t think
of the way that my head felt foggy and I couldn’t
remember what had happened before my vision
went black. I don’t think—I do.
I rip my body from the darkly dressed

man, I drive my shoulders into his thick abdomen
183
and my sudden movement has him crashing into

the brilliant painted tapestries I had admired only
moments before. His body goes flying, I know I
don’t have long, but the oddly shaped crystal
knob will be enough. I press my back against it,
and thrust my arms downward, the zip tie
releases a quick snap with the sound of breaking
plastic. I wince as I my fingers move in slow
motion; the absence of blood flow has made
them stiff and cold.
I don’t have a moment to waste as the

man comes barreling towards me again, Abram
yelling Russian in an anguished voice that pierces
the air. At the last instant I duck and catch the
man’s legs, sliding around to his back. With my
head and shoulder pressed firmly into his back I
spin him around and to the ground, mounting his
back and holding him still with the crook of my
elbow pressuring against his carotid artery. My
hand slithers to the small of his back while
184
pressing my body hard against his back,

immobilizing the tank of a man.
“Think,” I gasp for air, “Again.”
The gun clicks, the sounds of metal sharp

echo in the beautiful throne room. At the click of
a gun trigger, he squirms harder against the
strong grip of my arms, and I press back with
equal magnitude. He goes limp in my arms.
Abram’s face is now a sheet of white as I stand
with the gun still aimed at him, blood drips from
my wrist with the tight grip on the metal.
“Think. Again,” I repeat. A challenge to

the man who has taken so much.
“What will killing me do? You won’t find

her. Ever.”
185
I chuckle, I’m sure to any bystander I

would look absolutely crazed, the maniac inside of
these four walls.
“Ah, see, but this is where you’ve

forgotten to take into account who you are
dealing with, Abram. I am not some American girl,
or even the traditional detective—I am Finley
Harrison, and I am known for my untraditional
methods and favorable results. Do you really think
that I’d let Benjamin Morgan take me if I hadn’t
wanted him to? Do you think that I don’t know
exactly where I am right now? That I wouldn’t
recognize the throne room of Gatchina’s Palace?
Or the fact that I have yet to hear anyone come to
your aid?”
“What does it matter even if this was

some palace, and what makes you think, me, in
charge of one of the most valuable assets to my
crippling company, would be sent with a single
man for protection?” his words are stuttered, his
186
face too flushed for someone who is at ease.

“She’s not here you know.”
“But—this isn’t ‘some palace,’ I have yet

to heard another footstep even with the dropping
of a burly man to the floor and your screaming—
and I know Izabelle is here, because you won’t
leave her out of your sight.”
He scoffs, “What makes you think I care

about her?”
“You don’t. But after your company

learned of your intentions to undermine a man as
powerful as Jack Sullivan—they dropped all
connections—and you were left with one lousy
man whom you promised a part of the
inheritance.”
His jaw goes slack, his brows crease one

last time, and the last words that will ever pass
187
Abram Volkov’s lips are “Ty suka—” as his knees

buckle and his limp body drops to the ground.
I keep the gun in my hand, my body

sliding through the door, past the knob that drips
with my blood, and throw my body into the door
opposite the throne room. The old hinges give
way, and the door flies opens, slamming into the
wall.
She gasps, cowering in the corner,

begging. She won’t look up, her clothes are
ragged and her body too frail. She looks nothing
like the beautiful pictures that adorned her
grandfather’s desk all those weeks ago on his
ship.
“Izabelle? I am a friend of your

grandfather’s and I am here to take you home.”
___________
188
The massive truck only has a quarter of a

tank of gas, but I checked—it’ll get us to a sketchy
gas station that won’t think anything of my large
bills. A place where morals can be easily bought.
Her body is curled in on itself in the passenger
seat, the sweatshirt is about three sizes too big,
but she gratefully took anything to get out of the
clothes that reminded her of him. I reach up to
adjust the rearview mirror and my jaw clenches as
the scene behind us.
The once beautiful palace, an array of

reds, oranges, yellows, a golden display of flame.
Soon, Abram Volkov’s remains will not be able to
be distinguished underneath the rubble of an
abandoned castle and a tragic electrical fire.
___________
189
Three Weeks Later
The headline reads of an anonymous tip,

a spotting in a small European town far from
Leningrad Oblast. I sip from the bulky evergreen
mug, the story starting with another black coffee,
reminding me of another place. I absentmindedly
trace the rim of the mug as I think of the Alaskan
mountains, not too unlike the ones that surround
me in Seattle.
“You think I wouldn’t put together that

Finley was the one behind finding Izabelle
Sullivan, come on girl, I know you like no one
else.”
I freeze, my hands gripping tightly on the

table. It couldn’t—could it? I gather enough
190
courage to raise my eyes from the newspaper in

front of me.
CJ.
My best friend.
My confidante.
“How—”
“You may have some tricks up your

sleeve, but apparently so does Mr. Sullivan. Didn’t
think I’d have to make an overseas call and yell at
Marcus until my face turned purple, but boy was I
resilient. Kept yelling to someone on the other
end of the line—Myles? Thank goodness for him
or else I don’t think the man would have ever told
me where to find you.”
191
I smile and shake my head thinking of the

way Marcus has protected me for years, and now
I supposed I owe Myles as well.
“So what do you think? Could you ever

take Marcus’ offer? For a life surrounded by
mountains and sea? And I suppose a few slices of
supreme pizza here and there.”
“As tempting as the near death

experiences may be, I think I could get used to not
owning a suitcase,” and with that I launch myself
into the arms of the only place I have ever felt the
worries of murderers and kidnappers vanish, CJ.
192
193

Finding The Girl Who Disappears

Uploaded by

Document Information

Original Title

Copyright

Available Formats

Share this document

Share or Embed Document

Sharing Options

Did you find this document useful?

Is this content inappropriate?

Copyright:

Available Formats

Finding The Girl Who Disappears

Uploaded by

Copyright:

Available Formats

Finding the Girl Who Disappears

lull, and my eyelids start to feel heavy. But I

It starts as a speck, no different from the

Following the path that avoids the docks,

turns, rolls his eyes and slides the lock, opening

“The front door works like an absolute

“Yes, but this way I get attention ASAP!

“Supreme, yeah, yeah. Here,” he sneers.

I throw some bills at him and he slides

“Every time, we both know my Pop won’t

“But it’s always worth a try,” I give a sad

His face turns to a look of regret, gray

“You’re gone, aren’t you?”

This is why you don’t get attached to

“Duty calls,” I reply as I continue my

He gives a sad smile, one I know all too

My new home, for the next few months.

Homer. My recuperation period, time to

but I have jet lag, and can’t sleep without knowing

A slow screech and on instinct I quickly

His face tells the story, and I’m instantly

I call 911, and give CPR, sheer minutes

His scream pierces the chilling night air,

CJ and his father became the two people

who I really was. It started as favorite colors,

But tomorrow, a floating mass will take

My torso is mangled at best. Shades of

upward. I had told CJ I was going hiking, and

Shaking the memory of my head crushing

No one is up, but I still duck between the

“Finley Harrison, I presume,” he inquires

“Fin, but yes,” he’s wearing a suit at five

“I’m Benjamin, the man you’ve been

“I’ll leave you to it, someone will be by

wander over me once, and moves quickly from

I slide my bags from my shoulders and

from the harsh metal. The tile is gray, the sink, a

I turn away from the male like bathroom,

through my room. Even though there are more

The woman is plump. She wears a tired

She apprehensively reaches out a tanned,

“Bom dia, chamo de Mariana,” her voice

“Mariana is it? I know very little

She smiles brightly, and with a heavy

“Yes, Benjamin told me to expect

She nods, looking over my shoulder at

“There’s no need to be nervous around

“Come, come to meet Mr. Sullivan.”

And suddenly–I am the one who wants to

and an ensemble of windows and doors that

“This is Mr. Sullivan’s quarters,” she

An unintelligible, muffled sound comes

“Mr. Sullivan,” her head bows with clear

At this point she melts into the wall

childhood imagination. His hair is full, white, and

“Finley, James Sullivan,” the man greets

“You can call me Fin,” I reply reaching for

He begins to sit, and gestures for me to

age, ill equipped with moving deftly. I see a new

My chair is the polar opposite, the

“Elliot was right, you do not fail to see

“Well, tell me. What do you know from

that he is not the enemy with the brittle smile he