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Kirill has been with Anya since she was four. I’ve seen him carry her asleep from the car after long events. I have seen him stand between her and photographers, journalists, drunk guests, men who thought the Volkov name gave them permission to look too long. He once broke two fingers closing a door on a man who tried to follow Anya out of a restaurant.

That kind of loyalty is difficult to fake for years. Difficult, but not impossible.

I hate the thought.

Sergei taps the tablet once, restarting the clip. “He could have been checking the door because he saw someone. He could have been called there. He could’ve had nothing to do with the charm at all.”

“But he was there.”

“Yes.”

“And he didn’t mention it,” I say. Yesterday, we spoke with all the staff about where they were before the incident. Nothing unusual came up, but since we don’t have the camera footage to back up the claims, the interviews were practically useless. Even Kirill said he was nowhere near the pool. In fact, according to him, he was out for most of the day, like Galina.

“No.”

That’s the part I cannot ignore. That sort of thing should mean something. It does mean something.

But it doesn’t erase what is on the screen.

I look again at his closed hand, at the few blurred pixels that may be nothing and may be everything. “Have him checked.”

“Already started,” Sergei replies smoothly.

“Don’t confront him yet,” Sergei says.

“I know.”

“You want to.”

“Obviously.”

“You cannot.”

I look at him. “I said I know.”

Sergei nods and changes the file on the tablet. “There are other possibilities.”

He brings up a list of names and photographs. Men I know. Men I expected. Men I would have preferred to deal with directly months ago, when the first whispers began moving through the city.

“Mikhail Orlov,” Sergei says. “Still angry about the port contract.”

“He lost because his bid was weak.”

“He believes he lost because you turned two council members.”

“He believes many comforting lies.”

“His people have been active near Brighton Beach again. Nothing close to the school or estate, but he has money and enough resentment to be stupid.”

I look at Orlov’s photograph. Narrow face, expensive teeth, eyes that always seem to be measuring the value of betrayal.

“He would attack me through business first.”

“He has. Twice.”

“He would not go after a child.”

Sergei hesitates.