Chapter 73

Chapter 73

“It should be under Lin, ” I told the dour-faced hotel clerk. “L-I-N.”

Heath and I had been traveling for over twenty-four hours by that point—two planes, a train, and then, once we finally set foot in Sochi, a surprise visit from doping control, who escorted us to an unmarked building and made us drink watered-down fruit juice until we were rehydrated enough to provide samples, even though we’d both repeatedly submitted to random drug testing back in Boston.

By the time we made it to our hotel, it was well after dark—and our rooms, apparently, were no longer available, even though Bella had made the booking months earlier, before the damn building was even finished, and confirmed it before our departure. Twice.

The place still looked under construction, with sawdust covering the lobby furniture, loose wires hanging from light fixtures, and the clerk wearing a handwritten tag that proclaimed, in crooked Sharpie strokes, that his name was BORIS.

“No Lin,” Boris said. “No room.”

Heath stepped in, addressing the man in Russian. No matter how many times I heard him speak the language, it never ceased to be both sexy and unsettling.

But Boris was unmoved. He kept repeating a series of guttural sounds I could only assume were Russian for Go away stupid Americans, we are fully booked.

“There’s one room open,” Heath relayed after a bit more back and forth. “But he says it’s quite small.”

“As long as it has a bed, I don’t give a damn.”

I was so exhausted, I felt almost envious of the stray dogs snoozing on the street outside. We had agreed we were too old for the raucous Olympic Village party scene this time around, but I would have happily accepted one of those uncomfortable ultra-long twins if it meant I could get off my feet.

There was no one available to help with our baggage, or even a luggage cart on hand, so we trudged down the dimly lit hallway dragging everything behind us like pack animals. The lobby decor and customer service left a lot to be desired, but I thought surely the room itself would be better.

I thought wrong. The space was a shoebox, with a tiny bathroom bulging off to one side like a tumor and a coatrack in lieu of a closet. The tang of fresh paint was overwhelming, yet somehow the walls looked grungy. There was indeed a bed, but only one—a double, though the shadows made it appear even narrower.

I hung up the garment bags containing our costumes, doing my best to balance the weight so that the flimsy rack wouldn’t topple over or snap right in half. Heath’s costumes were mostly black, but my free dance dress was delicate sea-foam satin, and I didn’t want the fabric touching anything in this room.

Heath dropped the rest of our luggage on the greige carpet. “Is it just me, or is this even worse than that motel back in Cleveland?”

“Hey now,” I said. “This place has all sorts of amenities that motel in Cleveland didn’t offer.” I nodded to the only decor on the walls. “For example, this glorious portrait of President Vladimir Putin, here to watch over us while we sleep.”

Heath snickered. “What about this light fixture with not one but two dead flies inside? Can’t find that just anywhere, now can you?”

We both shook with laughter, on the verge of fatigue-induced hysteria. Then the light burned out with a loud pop, and we lost our shit completely, collapsing on the bed, holding our stomachs, tears streaming down our faces.

A few moments passed before I realized how close we were. Our fingers brushed together on the thin comforter, and one of my legs was flung over his. He seemed to realize too, and we both tried to extricate ourselves—only to end up closer, eyes shining inches away from each other in the dark.

A heavy thump rattled the door. We sat up.

“What was that?” I asked.

Heath switched on the standing lamp beside the bed. “I don’t know.”

I slid off the mattress. There was no peephole in the door, so I opened it a few inches, peering out.

A vase filled with red roses sat on the floor outside our room. I looked up and down the hall, but whoever had delivered them was already gone.

I picked up the flowers and shut the door. “These from you?” I asked.

In my jet-lagged stupor, I’d almost forgotten it was the fourteenth of February—though even when we were a couple, we’d never cared much about Valentine’s Day. Maybe he’d ordered the flowers for Bella in advance, and forgotten to cancel?

“Nope, not from me.” Heath looked down. “Katarina, your shoes.”

Something red dripped from the vase, spattering the toes of my sneakers. The stuff was on my hands too, oozing over my knuckles.

I dropped the flowers. The glass shattered, covering the floor in sticky crimson shards. In the center of the mess, there was something white.

“Careful!” Heath said as I bent to pick it up.

A small rectangle of card stock, printed with a short phrase in Cyrillic script.

с возвращением Катарина

My hands shook as I handed the message to Heath. “What does it say?”

He studied the card. “Well, this last word is your name. And the first part—the literal translation would be ‘to your return.’?”

The corners were stained red, oozing toward the center. Paint, I told myself, or some sort of dye. Except it gave off the copper tang of real blood.

“What it really means, though,” Heath said, “is welcome back. ”