of the front door and looking both ways before shutting it. Was I about to be the next star on Russia’s version of Forensic Files? “This cannot be good,” he muttered, shaking his head and hobbling past me. “Vera, kofe! We drink instant in this house. Hope you do not mind.” “Of course not.” I hated coffee, but I’d drink five cups if it got me a few answers. “Come sit down, girl.” I set my bag on the floor and took a seat on a faded floral-print couch, while he took the armchair across from me. A crackling flame in the fireplace filled the room with much-needed warmth, and books and knickknacks littered every available shelf. The space was cluttered but comfortable in a lived-in way. Vera placed two cups of coffee on the wooden table between us, watching me with big eyes, before she disappeared from the room like hellhounds were on her heels. I stared at her retreat. “Is there a reason she’s terrified of me?” He waved a hand. “She is superstitious.” “I don’t understand.” “You are Tatianna’s spitting image. We did not know she had a child. Well, we knew, but we thought you passed away shortly after birth. Problem with the lungs, your papa told us.” I always knew my mother had died young, but the only reason I knew her name was because the one time Papa ever got drunk, he told me I looked too much like his Tatianna. I often wondered if that was why, as I became older, he spent less and less time with me. “My lungs are fine.” “I can see that,” the man said with a chuckle and sipped his coffee. “What brings you to our neck of the woods?” “I’m ona mission . . . of sorts.” He hummed with disapproval. “Have you not heard the phrase, ‘Curiosity killed the cat?’ You are just like your mother. Some things are better left in the dark.” I’d never heard so much about my mother in my entire life than I had in the last few minutes. Finally, I was getting some answers. And, apparently, more questions. “Why would my papa tell you I died?” He frowned. “Is it not obvious?”