Teaser Tuesday
“Evening,” the first cop says. “We just need to speak with Pyotr Fyodorov and his daughter.”
The food in my stomach turns sour.
“Officers,” Dad says. “I don’t understand. What do you -”
“Sir, we’re investigating the break in at your home. We just visited your wife in the hospital.”
Now even the baby is quiet.
“Kids, clear the table,” Vera says. “Let’s leave these gentlemen alone with the Fyodorovs.”
No, I want to say. Please don’t leave us alone with them. Please just tell them to go.
“I thought you caught the man who hurt us,” I say. There’s a quiver in my voice, and I hate it. I have no reason to be afraid of these men.
“Yes,” the second cop says. “We found the shooter unconscious in the girl’s bedroom. But we have reason to believe that someone hired him.”
“Who would hire someone to kill us?” Dad asks.
“We’re not sure at this time, sir,” the first policeman says. “But we did find something interesting while we were processing your wife.” The cop slides a photo from his back pocket and presses it into Dad’s hand. At first I’m not sure what it is - a wide swath of pale color marred by puckered lines running parallel to each other.
Skin. Skin with scars.
“What is this?” Dad asks.
“That’s a photograph of your wife’s stomach, sir.”
Dad stiffens, his lips tightening into skinny white lines. Despite the hollow apathy in my stomach, I don’t like the idea of these men probing Mom’s body any more than he does. “And?” he asks.
“And can you tell me how Mrs. Fyodorov got those scars?” There’s accusation in his eyes, and I want to hit him.
Apparently Dad has the same thought. He lifts his chin, his face turning cold as ice. “I have never hurt my wife. Never.”
“Well, then,” the man says. “There’s no reason to be defensive. How did your wife get these scars, sir?”
Dad flinches away from the photograph. “There were complications when Lana was born,” he mumbles. “She had to have a C-section.”
“These scars are not from a C-section,” the policeman says. “This is assault, sir.”
Dad swallows, swallows. “I - don’t understand,” he whispers.
“These scars,” the man says, “were made by some kind of blades, or - or talons. Something literally clawed through your wife’s abdomen.”
My heart freezes inside my chest. I curl hands into fists, feeling nails like daggers slice into my palms. A pulse of pain swells up in my head.
“I - I don’t know anything about that,” Dad says hoarsely. There’s a lie in his voice, hanging thick and heavy on his tongue. Maybe the policeman doesn’t hear it, but I do.
My palms start to bleed.