In Sheep's Clothing

The KGB. She didn’t know what was worse. Being chased by a killer or interrogated by the KGB. Where was a decent hiding place when a person needed one?

They climbed into his greasy rattletrap of a car and Gracie huddled on the smooth vinyl seat, shooting a glare his direction. He ignored her. Motoring into traffic, he said nothing.

“Some interrogation,” she muttered.

He kept his eyes forward, but she noticed his whitened grip on the steering wheel.

“Where are we going?”

“Back to the scene. We need you to walk through what happened with us.”

“What? No!” She grabbed the door handle. “Let me out! I’m not going back there.” She began to shake, her composure unraveling. Tears bit her eyes. Where was Miss Sass and Courage when she needed her?

He pulled over and she braced herself, poised to fly out of the car and run until she hit the Chinese border, or beyond. Let him try to catch her. She didn’t care if they had to run her down with a tank—she wasn’t returning to the scene of her friend’s murder.

He grabbed her arm, reached across her and held her door shut.

Was she that transparent? “Get away from me.”

“Don’t be afraid, Miss Benson. I’ll be there with you.”

She stared at him, at his eyes and the way they looked so incredibly blue, surprisingly tender for the situation, and suddenly, hot tears were running down her cheeks. “I don’t even know you.” Agony stretched her voice thin. “I just want to go home.”

He continued to hold her arm, but loosened his grip on the door. “I know,” he said. His words were a salve on her raw emotions. Oh, how she wanted to unravel into a puddle of pain.

“I know you don’t know me. But I mean you no harm. All I want to do is find your friends’ killer.”

His voice had turned soft, and even with the accent, she could hear a man trying to soothe a woman’s fears. He might have tried that approach when he was breaking into her train compartment. She looked away from him.

“You must have been horrified to find them. I’m sorry you had to see it,” he said.

“Them?” she croaked, then realized he meant Dr. Willie. So…Evelyn’s kind, handsome husband had also been murdered. A moan ripped through Gracie, and she covered her face with her hands.

The cop put his hand on her shoulder. Warm, strong, a presence that she should probably shrug off. But it seemed so…kind. She just closed her eyes and let herself cry.

The sounds of her anguish filled the car. She didn’t even think to be embarrassed; she just let her grief spill out. The cop didn’t move, didn’t pull her into an awkward, polite embrace, but didn’t remove his hand, either. Somehow that balance felt comforting.

She finally pressed her fists into her eyes, trying to stem the tears. “I didn’t know Dr. Willie had been killed.”

“I’m sorry.”

His tone went straight to her battered soul.

Okay, so maybe she’d misjudged him. Or, more likely, she again was falling victim to her own abysmally bad judgment.

She glanced at him. He didn’t betray any inkling that she might look a mess, with blotchy skin and bloodshot eyes.

Raising dark eyebrows, he smiled sadly. “Ready?”

She shook her head, then nodded, completely confused.

“Okay.” He eased the car out into traffic and they rode in silence until he pulled up to the Youngs’ apartment building. Gracie felt emptied. The front door hung open and she recalled with pain the suspicious gaze the old babushka had sent her when she had tumbled outside.

Of course. She’d been covered in blood. No wonder the old woman had gaped at her. Thankfully, now the bench outside the building was empty.

The FSB agent—whatever his name was—got out, came around the car and opened the door. He held out his hand, and after a second she took it. He held it a second longer than was necessary, it seemed, to help her out of the car.

“Thank you…”

“Captain Vicktor Shubnikov.”

He smiled, and the warmth in his expression helped her rally.

“Ready to go up?”

She nodded.

They rode up the lift. Dread pushed down on her with every passing flight. The doors bumped open on the sixth floor and she shuffled out, Captain Shubnikov on her tail.

The Youngs’ door hung open. She heard voices inside—gruff, angry Russian.

“This way,” Captain Shubnikov said, and pointed to Evelyn’s kitchen.

Gracie obeyed, greatly relieved not to have to enter the room where her best friend lay murdered.

“She’s not there.” Larissa hung up the telephone and sat back in her office chair, folding her arms over her silk blouse. “Are you sure she’s not at the Youngs’?”

Andrei fiddled with his car keys and shook his head. “I went up there, peeked in. The place is a cop circus. She’s nowhere to be found.”

Larissa had never seen her cousin so…shaken. She knew he was in love with the American, but Gracie’s disappearance had him unglued. His hair was mussed, his jacket hung on slumped shoulders. Had he even shaved today? His jingling car keys frayed her nerves.

Where was Gracie? Larissa chewed her lip. They had to find her, fast. Before the FSB got to her. The last thing Gracie needed was a day with the FSB to force her back inside her turtle shell. The poor thing was just getting used to taking public transportation. The sooner she was out of Russia, the better—for all of them. Even if it did rip a hole through Larissa’s heart. She’d come to truly care about the American with the obsession about God that matched that of the rest of her mother’s family. Religion was the opiate of the masses. Of the Tallin family, for sure. Look what it had done to Andrei.

Larissa stood up and crossed to the front of her desk, grabbing Andrei by the collar of his coat. “Find her. Make sure she’s safe. Bring her back to her place and I’ll meet you there later.”

Andrei’s brow furrowed. “You’re not coming with me?”

She circled back to her desk chair, pausing for a moment to give him a frown. “I have work to do.”

Vicktor strode in behind Grace Benson, feeling sorry for the lady every step of the way. It seemed utterly unfair that she should have to face the horrific scene twice in one day. That had never seemed clearer to him than in the car when she nearly shattered before his eyes. Oy, he had to admit, he’d never seen a woman so completely wear her feelings on the outside of her body. And when she looked at him with so much fear in her eyes, well, he’d had to fight the weird desire to pull her into his arms.

Her wounded expression had reached out to him in the train and turned him into some sort of cream puff.

He felt like a jerk for suspecting her, but that was his job. He shoved his hands in his pockets and fought to harden the soft places she’d touched in his heart.

Grace crossed her arms and stared out the kitchen window. Her erect posture gave her dignity, but Vicktor had seen the slight quake of her shoulders and the two deep breaths she’d gulped as she entered the kitchen.

“Ask her what she knows,” Arkady said, following them both into the room.