I’ve lost weight living on a diet of soup four times a day, but my muscles are more pronounced from my daily exercise regime. Staying strong is as important in this environment as having friends. I wonder if I’ll find another Ghost. I’m sorry I can’t say goodbye.

  Handcuffs are placed on my wrists, and this time I walk out standing straight. Passing the tiny cells, one after the other makes my stomach turn. No human should be housed this way for any period of time.

  One of the guards puts a small bundle between my cuffed hands before I walk out the door. He doesn’t make eye contact, and I do my best not to drop it as I’m shoved into the back of the van alone.

  Sitting with my back to the cab, I realize it’s the clothes I wore when I arrived. My shoes and watch are gone, but my chest squeezes as I quickly shove my fingers in the pockets of my shirt.

  I can hardly breathe hoping, Is it still there? Fuck, it’s got to be. I’m frantic, bouncing over rough roads, falling to the side, my fingers touch paper, and I exhale a yell. It’s here.

  Careful not to tear it, I slide the photograph from the pocket of my shirt. The minute I see her face, my chin drops, and I exhale a groan.

  Swallowing the pain, I trace my finger over her pretty smile. I’m holding her in my arms, and I cast my mind back to that day, her soft body next to mine in the bed.

  I can’t smell her scent anymore, but I remember it. I remember the feel of her soft breasts in my hands, and the warmth of her laugh. Leaning against the wall in the back of that van, I hold the photograph to my heart and dream of a day when I’ll hold her again.

  “Get out.” The sky is dark, and I’m confused when I open my eyes.

  I must’ve fallen asleep, and we’ve driven much longer than half a day. Shuffling forward, I stand up to see we’re outside some kind of state building or a castle.

  “Come this way.” The guard speaks in Russian, and I follow him and another man up the concrete drive, past an elaborate fountain, around to a side entrance.

  We step into a small room where deliveries are received. Boxes are stacked in a corner, and a dumb waiter is built into the wall. A narrow, black staircase is situated in the other corner, and I wait with my hands cuffed.

  A second guard stands opposite me, but he doesn’t make eye contact. He’s indifferent to my plight, probably wishing he was off duty, somewhere miles from here. At least, it’s how I’d feel if I were him.

  The original guard steps through a dark wooden door, and motions to me. “This way.”

  It’s all very cloak and dagger, and I’m confused as to what’s going on. I’m supposed to be in a labor camp, but this is clearly someone’s official residence.

  I follow the guard into the main building, through rooms with enormous Oriental rugs covering polished wood floors. Chairs and sofas with opulent, satin upholstery are positioned beside tables holding stained-glass Tiffany lamps and crystal dishes.

  In one room we pass, a grand piano is in the center with spindly wooden chairs arranged as if in preparation for a private concert.

  Finally, we stop at a massive wooden door, and the guard taps lightly.

  “Come.” A male voice speaks sharply in Russian from inside, and the door opens.

  I’m escorted into a large office with a heavy wooden desk in the center. A green lamp is on one corner and a brass statue of a cherub holding a harp and a cluster of grapes is on the other.

  The walls are lined with bookshelves, and photographs of a young woman and a little girl are arranged among the books. In each frame, the pair grow a few years older.

  Behind the desk sits a man with thick white hair smoothed back from his prominent face. He’s wearing a gray suit with no tie, and his white shirt is unbuttoned. He’s casual, but clearly powerful.

  “Leave us,” the man orders, and the guard starts for the door. “Wait. Remove these handcuffs.”

  “Are you sure?” The guard is confused, but the old man cuts him a glare which elicits quick compliance.

  Cuffs gone, I rub my wrists, waiting to see what’s about to happen. I’m at a complete loss.

  “May I offer you a drink?” The old man stands and goes to a small table beside a window.

  He pours a short glass of vodka, but I decline. “It’s been a while since I’ve had a drink.”

  And I have no intention of being drugged.

  “You’re probably wondering who I am and what you’re doing here.” He closes the space between us, leaning against the desk. “May I see your wrists?”

  Adrenaline circulates in my veins. I don’t know what kind of setup this might be, but I’m mentally preparing to punch this guy in the face and run.

  “Please, if you don’t mind.”

  “What do you want to see?” My voice is rough from lack of use.

  “I heard you were severely burned over most of your body. I wanted to be sure I have the right person before I say what I’m about to say.”

  Placing my hands on the arms of the chair, I stand to my full height, five inches taller than this man. His eyes widen, and he straightens, moving around to the other side of the desk. It’s reassuring to know I’m bigger than him–and he’s afraid.

  Without taking my eyes off his, I slide the prison-issue shirt over my head, exposing my full torso for inspection. “The ink covers my scars.”

  The old man’s eyes widen, and he blinks down to the wooden desktop. His brow clutches as if he’s reliving some secret pain, then he begins to speak.

  “Eight years ago, I was in the Mediterranean, yachting back from Cannes to Istanbul. My daughter Ana was traveling with my granddaughter to meet me from her home in Varna.” He pauses to inhale or to simply collect himself as if telling me this is difficult. “She made a detour… I don’t remember why. I think it was to visit a farmer’s market. She was very interested in handmade things at that time. Either way, they stopped at a place called Krasivoy Kafe for lunch.”

  His brown eyes lift to mine, and my shoulders tighten. I pull my shirt back on.

  “The place no longer exists.” His voice is solemn. “But perhaps you remember it?”

  It’s difficult to breathe, but I answer. “I remember.”

  “A tragic event occurred at that Kafe. A fire broke out and several people were killed. More were injured, and in the chaos, my daughter and granddaughter were separated. She was dragged out, leaving her daughter inside to die.”

  Swallowing the knot in my throat, I wish I’d accepted that drink. My mouth is completely dry.

  He continues slowly. “They were in a very rural area, and the fire trucks took a long time to arrive. The ancient structure was burning fast, and my daughter was frantic.”

  He pauses, walking to his bookshelf where he lifts a framed photograph. “My wife died when Ana was a child. She and my granddaughter are the only family I have left in this world.”

  Pain grinds in my chest, and I wish he’d get to the point.

  “Ana said two men appeared on the scene. One was an American, a Marine. The other appeared to be from our country. She said he was very tall, lean with long hair and wolfish blue eyes. She said he ran into the fire not once, but twice searching for my granddaughter. He found her. He saved her, but before he could escape, the roof collapsed. She feared the man had been killed.”

  He waits, and I look up at him, meeting his gaze.

  He gives me a knowing smile. “As you know, that man was not killed. We tracked him down in America, but he disappeared before I could make contact. For seven years we searched, then a few days ago, my man notified me the Marine was in Minsk meeting with a state official, trying to work out a deal to save that man’s life. You are that man, Oskar Lourde.”

  A surge of energy drives me to my feet. “Hutch was in Minsk?”

  “He wants to make an exchange, some criminal in return for your life. Only, you are not a criminal.” His flinty eyes lock on mine. “Are you?”

  Hesitating, I’m not sure how to respond. If I say yes, will he send me to the labor camp? If I say no, will my deal to save Hana be canceled?

  “I’ll have that drink if you’re still offering it.”

  He goes to the table and plucks a large square of ice, lowering it into a short crystal tumbler, then he pours clear vodka over it. Handing it to me, he waits as I drink it down.

  Gazing at the empty glass, I speak the truth. “I killed a man in America.”

  His chin lifts, and he returns to sit behind his desk. “You killed a man in America, but you pay for it in a Russian prison? How does that happen?”

  “The man I killed has connections in Moscow. I was briefly part of his network.”

  “I see.” He leans back in his chair, sliding a hand along the edge of his desk. “Why would the Marine make a deal for your freedom?”

  Shaking my head, I walk over to his bookshelf, lifting a framed photo of his daughter and the little girl. I recognize her now. She has a look about her, wise beyond her years. It reminds me of Hana.

  “The man I killed was a very bad man, but his brother is even worse. He put me there.”

  “The Marine said the man you killed raped his little sister, the woman you love, when she was a child. Is that true?”

  My jaw clenches, and my eyes squeeze shut. Returning the photo to the shelf, I drop my head as rage surges through my veins.

  “Yes.” It comes out as more of a growl. “I’d do it again. Slower.”

  The old man rises from his chair and walks to where I stand. “Do you know who I am, Mr. Lourde?” His voice is strong with authority.

  Studying him, I answer honestly. “I don’t.”

  I think he’s going to tell me, but he changes his mind. “Perhaps that’s how it should be. You saved my granddaughter with no knowledge of who she was, and for that I owe you a debt. Tonight I will put you on a plane for whatever destination you choose. You will not spend another night in prison in my country. My man will provide you with a number. If you are ever in trouble again, I hope you will allow me to help you.”

  33

  Hana

  My dress is magenta crêpe satin from the spring Valentino collection. It’s mid-thigh with cutouts at my ribs, creating the illusion of a halter top, and while it’s not Versace, Debbie would approve.

  Standing in front of my full-length mirror, I remember my friend. “Debbie would’ve been so proud of this night,” I say softly.

  Carmen gives my upper arms a squeeze, pressing her cheek to mine. “I wish I’d known her. She sounds like a lot of fun.”

  I lightly touch the tears from the corners of my eyes and force a smile. “She was wild, and she had bad taste in men. But her fashion sense was impeccable, and she was very loyal.”

  “Sounds like my kind of gal.”

  “You look amazing!” I step back admiring her shimmery purple sheath. “What’s happening here?”

  A solid red handkerchief is wrapped over her auburn hair, and she squints her hazel eyes at me. “You hate it? I saw it online in the Versace runway show, but I’m not sold.”

  “I mean, it’s a daring choice.”

  “That does it.” She rips the kerchief off her head and throws it on the bed. “Help me cut bangs.”

  “We have to leave for the show. I’m not cutting bangs.”

  “Everyone in New York has bangs! Everywhere we went, all I saw was bangs bangs bangs!”

  Grabbing her arms, I meet her eyes. “Aren’t I supposed to be the one freaking out right now? I’ll take you to get bangs tomorrow.”

  Closing her eyes, she nods quickly, sliding her hands down the front of her dress as she breathes. “You’re right. I’m sorry.” She inhales, exhales. “I was just thinking about all the rich and famous people who are going to be there tonight, and I look like a bumpkin with no fashion sense.”

  “You look really good, and I wouldn't just say that.”

  Pepper bursts through the door. “Hana, your mama said if you don't get down to the car right this minute she’s going to drive straight to the airport and board a plane for St. Moritz. I don’t know what that means, but she is very dramatic.”

  My little friend’s eyes are wide, and I grab her hand. “It means it’s time to go.”

  Carmen waves her hands in front of her face, and somehow her freaking out actually helps me stay calm. Something along the lines of, one of us has to keep it together.

  The three of us clasp hands, and we head for the door.

  Jill clutches my arm as I sip my glass of champagne, trying hard not to be nervous. “This is the best opening we’ve had in years.”

  “How do you know?” I scan the neutral faces of the men and women filtering through the gallery, sipping wine and pausing in front of each photograph to stare.

  My heart sinks every time they do that.

  “They don’t smile,” I turn to Jill’s chest, putting my hand on my forehead. “They hate it.”

  “Honey.” Jill hooks a finger under my chin. “Almost every print has sold. They’re not smiling because they’re awestruck. The reporter from the Times said he hadn’t seen such a unique voice since Maier. As in Vivian Maier.”

  My eyes heat, and I think I might cry. “I’m not that good.”

  “That’s exactly what makes you great.” Wrapping her arm around my shoulder, she gives me a squeeze. “We’ll have you back in the fall for another show, then next year we can do a retrospective.”

  “I haven’t been around long enough for a retrospective.”

  She waves her hand, giving me a wink. “We’ll see what happens. Just don’t stop taking pictures. The new ones you sent are perfection.” She does a chef’s kiss. “The father-daughter portrait? Tears.”

  Oh, shit. I forgot it’s hanging in the next wing. “Thank you so much, Jill!”

  Moving as fast as possible through the crowd, I wind my way past Mama, who’s going on about my grandmother’s artistic eye and trips to Paris. I’m pretty sure she’s making that shit up. Every time she gets drunk, she goes on and on about how far she’s climbed from her West Virginia coal-mining roots.

  Trip says something, but I don’t stop. I’ve got to find Pepper, and I’m pretty sure I know where she is.

  The gallery is dimly lit with spotlights illuminating the photographs to make them more prominent. The wings are arranged in a winding S pattern, following the timeline we created, guiding viewers through the stages of Memory. I round the fourth corner, and skid to a stop.

  She’s there, standing in front of the giant portrait of her and Teal sitting across from each other at Shirley’s. In the picture, Pepper’s hands are elevated as she tells some story, and at this size, the amazement in Teal’s eyes at his daughter is vivid.

  Chewing my lip, I walk slowly to where my little friend is standing, and as I get closer, I see her face is streaked with tears.

  “Pepper?” I drop to my knees, putting my arms around her waist.

  “I can’t believe I didn’t see it.” Her voice is a whisper, and I hug her tighter. “It’s so obvious. I really am stupid.”

  “You are not!” I lift my head and meet her eyes. “You are one of the smartest kids I’ve ever known in my whole life.”

  “I should have told you sooner.” The male voice behind me causes us both to turn.

  Teal takes a few steps closer, ducking his head. His hands are shoved in his pockets the way they always are when Pepper is around. “No denying the obvious here.”

  Rising to my feet, I hold out my hands. “Teal, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize–”

  “It’s an amazing photo. I want a copy to frame and hang on my wall–after you sign it, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  Pepper looks up at him, and he drops to his knees, lifting his hands and hesitating before he touches her. “Can I hug you?”

  She dives forward, wrapping her arms around his neck, and dammit, I’m crying.

  “I need a tissue,” I tell them before taking off to the ladies room.

  It helps that I’m pretty familiar with this gallery from the days I’ve spent preparing for this show. Touching the scratchy paper towel to my eyes, I make sure I don't look like a raccoon before heading out into the fray once more. I’m going to be exhausted by the end of this.

  Drifting into the movement of the viewers, I hang in the shadows to watch their reactions. My stomach tightens when I look up to see I’m in the most painful part of my collection. I wish I’d kept that awful tissue on hand, because the oversized portraits of Scar bring all the pain flooding back into my chest.

  It’s a deep, soul-gutting pain. Somewhere out there, my love is in prison, possibly being tortured on my behalf.

  Leaning my head forward, I inhale a sharp breath, knowing I can’t do this right now. I have to hold on a little longer and break down when I’m alone.

  Still, the pain is unbearable. As beautiful as this night is, it’s only a phantom of good with him not here. If only I could send him letters. If only I could hear his voice.

  Oh, God, if only I could touch him one more time…

  “They looked good in the darkroom, but wow. I can’t believe this is me.” The deep voice beside me in the dark makes my knees wobble.

  Am I hallucinating? Turning my head slowly, when I meet his eyes, I almost faint.

  “Don’t do that.” Stepping closer, he scoops me up by the waist before, holding me close to his chest.

  I’m surrounded by warm woods and clean man-scent. “Is this a dream?”

  Blinking fast, I’m sure it is. I must have fallen asleep.

  Leaning down, he traces his nose along my cheek before kissing my lips gently. “Jesus, you feel so good. I’ve dreamed of this for weeks.”

  “I don’t understand…” Tears slide from my eyes, and I’m having trouble breathing properly.

  His strong arms are around me. He’s holding me tight against his chest, and the last time I felt this way, I was on mushrooms.

  “Maybe we should start believing in God, because I think I got a miracle.” He’s smiling, and the love glowing in his eyes has my heart flapping higher and higher in my chest like it grew wings.

  “I always believed in God. I just never believed he cared for me, because I’m such a fuckup.”