Chapter 11 - THE LAST KIND OF LEVERAGE
The audio recording arrived as a link in an email sent to Maksim's personal attorney. It contained thirty-one seconds of hiss, a man's voice speaking about insurance policies, and another voice saying, "Clear the building before dawn." The file ended with a sharp metallic click. A message beneath it claimed that a longer recording would prove Maksim's father ordered the Riverbend fire, and that the younger Voloshin had known all along.
"They've edited it," Maksim said.
His lawyer did not disagree. "Possibly. But we don't get to decide that by listening twice. We give it to investigators."
Maksim did. Forensic analysts would compare the audio with a separate cassette recovered from Galina's box, examine the recording history, and look for corroboration. It might expose the truth. It might also be a desperate attempt by Viktor to contaminate a prosecution. The uncertainty had to be endured.
Meanwhile, Bree was leaving the hospital. The discharge instructions filled a folder: wound care, pain management, rehabilitation appointments, fatigue precautions, warning signs, and follow-up imaging. She had expected to feel triumphant walking out. Instead she became overwhelmed by the sound of traffic in the parking garage.
A passing delivery van backfired. Her knees buckled. She gripped the railing, and for one terrible second she was back in the car hearing glass break.
Maksim moved toward her but stopped when she raised a hand. "Don't touch me. Just talk."
"You're at the hospital," he said. "The van is going past us. Nobody is firing a weapon. Theo is right behind you."
Bree pressed her shoes against the ground. The terror did not vanish because somebody named it. But the concrete beneath her feet was solid, and Theo's voice was real, and after a minute she could breathe without fighting the air.
"I'm sorry," she whispered.
"For what?"
"I thought leaving meant I'd be better."
"Leaving means you get to heal somewhere else. That's all it has to mean today."
She looked at him in surprise. The man who had once treated distress as a problem to eliminate was learning how to witness it without making it about himself.
Her apartment was no longer suitable for her recovery. The stairs were steep, and the laundry room was in the basement. A caseworker helped the siblings find a short-term accessible rental near Theo's school and Bree's outpatient therapy. Maksim offered financial assistance through the same documented, no-conditions process they had already agreed upon. Bree chose the apartment herself. It had yellow kitchen cabinets, a small balcony, and a landlord who cared more about quiet hours than surnames.
Theo hung his model airplanes above the dining table before the first box was unpacked. "It's a little small," he said, surveying the room.
"It's ours," Bree answered.
The word made them both pause. For years everything had felt temporary: medical appointments, borrowed hours, late bills, a future postponed until they could afford one. Now the little apartment seemed like evidence that a life could begin again without needing to be grand.
Viktor refused to let the story settle. A columnist received an anonymous packet alleging that Bree had been paid to invent details about the security badges. The packet included genuine payroll records from her employment, misleadingly presented as secret witness payments. Another account posted a cropped photograph of her and Maksim together, suggesting an affair had motivated her testimony.
Bree read the accusations on her phone and felt heat rise in her face. "They can't even let me be hurt without turning it into something dirty."
"We can ask your lawyer about a correction," Theo said.
"We can," she replied, proud that he used we rather than waiting for somebody powerful to intervene.
Her attorney sent evidence of the employment contract and timeline to the outlet. Some stories were corrected, others not. Bree wrote one short statement for her own page: she had worked as Galina's caregiver, witnessed a security exchange, survived the shooting, and was cooperating with police. She would not discuss her private medical records or her brother's treatment.
Her statement was shared by thousands of strangers. Some offered kindness; a few continued to be cruel. She turned off notifications and made soup with Theo. The soup burned. They ate it anyway.
In her first outpatient counseling session, Bree admitted she feared becoming somebody everyone tiptoed around. The therapist asked what she wished people would do instead. "Ask me whether I want company," Bree said. "Don't assume a loud noise means I'm going to fall apart, but don't make me pretend it was nothing either." The therapist suggested a few grounding practices and reminded her that recovery could be uneven without being a failure. Bree left with a small card of notes and the relief of having said the frightening thing aloud without anybody rushing to fix it.
At the manor, Galina was planning to leave her son's home for a smaller, more manageable residence. Maksim protested until she reminded him that he was not the only person whose choices had been limited by the family's history.
"I love you," she told him. "But love isn't a set of gates."
He helped her choose an apartment above a garden, close to public transportation and the community center Lucia had recommended. He did not ask why she wanted to live among people who weren't afraid of him. He knew.
Detective Bennett visited the new apartment that evening with one more development. Pike had provided the location of a storage facility Viktor used for cash, files, and surveillance records. Investigators had obtained warrants and coordinated a simultaneous search of multiple properties.
"We don't want your people anywhere near it," she told Maksim.
"They won't be."
"Not even if someone calls you and tries to provoke a reaction."
"Not even then."
As Bennett left, Maksim's phone lit up with an unknown number. A man spoke without introducing himself.
"Your father knew how to finish a war," Viktor said. "Meet me at the old Riverbend gate tonight, alone, or everyone will learn what he taught you."
May you like
Maksim looked at the phone, then at the detective walking toward her car. He had spent his life believing an insult required an answer. Tonight he discovered he could answer differently.
He called Bennett back before Viktor had finished speaking.
