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“I’ve done nothing but think.” His voice rises, and she flinches when he turns his face toward hers. “You don’t answer your phone. You block every number I call from. What the fuck was I supposed to do?”

The effort she makes to keep her expression calm tells me she has had some version of this conversation before. I wonder how often she stood within his reach, choosing her words carefully because he had made his temper her responsibility.

“We can talk,” she says. “But you need to let us go.”

“So, you can leave with him?” His eyes snap toward me. “I’m not going to let him take you away to Russia. She told me you were leaving”

“Evan, who told you?”

“Shut the fuck up,” he screams.

She winces but doesn’t relent. “You’re mistaken; I’m not going anywhere.”

“You expect me to believe that? There are fucking suitcases by the door.”

“They’re leaving, Evan. I’m not.”

Hearing her say it hurts, but I keep my face still. There’ll be time to explain, to tell her everything I should have said yesterday, if I can get her away from him.

Evan studies her face. For a second, his grip appears to ease. “He’s leaving you?”

Elara swallows. “Please put the gun down.”

“I told you.” He almost smiles, pressing his cheek against her hair. “I fucking told you what would happen. You thought he wanted you for anything more than a few weeks?”

My finger stays clear of the trigger, though every part of me wants to pull it.

“You can come home,” he tells her. “We can sort this out.”

She says nothing, and his face turns redder by the second. I regret my decision of letting this guy live when he first had his hands on her. I never should have listened to her. But I know one thing with perfect clarity. He dies today.

Anya cries out when he pulls her closer. “Papa!”

“I’m here,” I tell her. “Look at me, Anya.”

She turns her face toward mine. Her cheeks are wet, and she is breathing too fast.

“Papa, make him let us go.”

“I will.”

Evan shakes his head. “You have one chance. You choose one of them, and the other one dies.”

Sergei looks at me.

I don’t look away from Evan. “You want me to choose?”

“You heard me.”

“Let Anya go, and I will give you what you want,” Elara pleads.

Evan presses the gun more firmly against Elara’s head. “No. You choose first.”

Elara’s eyes meet mine. There’s fear in them, but it’s not fear for herself. She is watching Anya. Even with a gun against her head, she is trying to keep the child calm.

“Papa,” Anya whispers.

I take one step forward.