“No,” Mikhail said softly. “But you are my son.”
The man leaned closer and murmured something.
I caught only fragments.
Mall camera.
Wrong exit.
Followed.
Not random.
Mikhail’s expression did not change, but the room seemed to tighten around him.
Misha saw enough. “What happened?”
Mikhail lowered his hand. “We are going home.”
“What about Nina?”
“We continue looking.”
“Can Miss Anna call us if she remembers something?”
Mikhail looked at me.
The question sat there between us.
I didn’t want his phone number. I didn’t want black SUVs in my parking lot. I didn’t want old secrets crawling out of my father’s photographs.
But I looked at Misha’s face.
At the kitten shivering against his towel.
At the fear he was trying so hard to swallow.
“Fine,” I said. “Give me a number.”
Mikhail took a card from his wallet and placed it on the counter.
It was simple. Heavy. No company name. Just his name and one phone number printed in black.
Ray looked at the card as if it might explode.
Mikhail turned to leave, then paused.
“You said this diner is struggling.”
My eyes snapped up. “Misha talks too much.”
“I observe,” Misha said.
Ray muttered, “The kid conducted a full financial audit over meatloaf.”
Mikhail almost smiled.
Almost.
“I meant what I said,” I told him. “I’m not taking payment.”
“Then do not call it payment.”
“What should I call it?”
