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“Did anyone give her my name?”

“No.”

Anya looks at me. “I told her you have companies.”

I turn slowly toward my daughter. “I appreciate your discretion.”

“I didn’t tell her anything important,” Anya says defensively. “She asked what you do, and I said you work.”

Kirill looks away.

I notice. “What?”

He keeps his face carefully neutral. “Nothing.”

“Kirill.”

“She also asked whether you were famous.”

I wait.

“Anya told her you were not.”

For the first time since arriving home, something very close to amusement breaks through the anger sitting inside me.

I look at my daughter. “You have apparently decided this on my behalf.”

“You aren’t famous,” Anya says firmly. “Famous people are actors and singers and people on television.”

“There are other kinds of famous people.”

“You don’t do anything famous.”

I decide not to explain that being recognizable to prosecutors, politicians, businessmen, and several foreign intelligence agencies probably counts.

Instead, I look back toward Kirill. “What else did Bennett say?”

Kirill hesitates long enough that I know there is more. “She was suspicious about coming here.”

“That would indicate she possesses basic judgment.”

“She repeatedly informed us that getting into the vehicle looked like the beginning of a crime documentary.”

I stare at him.

Anya starts giggling.

Kirill continues because apparently my day is not strange enough. “She also asked whether Levin’s medical license had been printed in a basement, whether she would wake up missing a kidney, and why an eight-year-old needed what she called tactical personnel.”

Levin looks up from Elle. “My qualifications are perfectly legitimate.”

“I’m certain she will be relieved when she regains consciousness.”

Anya laughs again, properly this time, and hearing it loosens something in my chest that has been locked tight since Kirill called me.

I look at Elle.

She saved my daughter.