Chapter 6 - The Receipt“I didn’t give him a receipt,” I said immediately.
Mikhail’s eyes stayed on his phone.
“I know.”
The doctor finished the last stitch and cut the thread. Nobody moved. Even the rain seemed to pause against the windows.
Jerry crossed himself.
Misha looked between all of us with the terrible awareness of a child who had learned adults lie before they explain.
“What receipt?” he asked.
Mikhail slipped the phone into his coat. “Nothing for you to worry about.”
Misha’s small mouth hardened. “That means it is bad.”
I knelt carefully in front of him, wincing when my shoulder pulled.
“It means grown-ups are trying to figure out who did something wrong.”
“They always say that,” he whispered. “Then Papa sends me upstairs and everyone shouts.”
Mikhail’s face flickered.
That was the second crack.
I wondered how many times this little boy had been sent upstairs while powerful people destroyed each other below him.
“You won’t be sent upstairs here,” I said.
Mikhail looked at me sharply.
I looked back.
“He’s already involved. Pretending he isn’t won’t make him less scared.”
The room fell silent in a different way this time.
Mikhail exhaled through his nose.
Then he sat at my tiny kitchen table.
The chair creaked under him.
“Ana was Misha’s nanny for four years,” he said. “She was vetted by my people, my lawyers, and my enemies. She was loyal.”
“Was she?” Jerry muttered.
“She died with two broken fingers and no shoes,” Mikhail said.
Jerry went pale.
“She ran from someone,” I said.
“Yes.”
“And whoever killed her wanted it to look like she had brought Misha here.”
“Yes.”
My stomach twisted. “Why?”
“To make me think she betrayed me. To make me destroy the wrong person’s family while the real traitor watched.”
Misha stared at the floor.
“What was in the paper bag?” I asked suddenly.
Everyone turned to him.
When Misha had come in, he had clutched a tiny wet paper bag like treasure. I had forgotten it in the chaos.
He pointed to the booth downstairs. “I left it there.”
One guard ran down.
When he returned, he carried the soggy bag in gloved hands.
Inside was not candy.
Not a toy.
Not food.
It was a small gold key taped to a folded photograph.
The photograph showed Misha asleep in bed.
Taken from inside his bedroom.
On the back, written in red marker, were four words.
OPEN WHAT HE HID.
Mikhail stared at the photo.
For the first time, his hands were not perfectly still.
“What key is that?” I asked.
His voice was barely audible.
“My wife’s music box.”
I blinked.
“I thought you said Aunt Irina—”
“My wife is dead,” he said.
Misha whispered, “Mama’s box?”
Mikhail closed his fist around the key.
His eyes rose to mine.
“She died five years ago in a car accident.”
Then the power came back.
May you like
Every light in my apartment flashed on at once.
And someone screamed downstairs.
