Page 42 of Scarlet Thorns
“No one’s here,” I manage. “Just hurry. Please.”
The minutes crawl by like hours. I can’t even touch her— this is a crime scene now, evidence that needs to be preserved. But I can’t look away either, watching the final movements of a child I’ll never hold, never teach to throw a punch or speak Russian or navigate the ugly realities of our world.
I pace beside her, eyes fixed to her belly as I rake my hands through my hair and try not to roar in sheer fucking frustration and helplessness. By the time the sirens pierce the night air, the movement has nearly stopped.
No!
Bozhe moy, please, no!
Paramedics flood my living room with equipment and urgency. They work over Galina like seasoned professionals, checking for vitals, attempting resuscitation procedures. But I’ve encountered death enough times to know the grim truth. Truth that is written all over the paramedics’ faces— the grim set of their mouths, the way they avoid my eyes while going through the motions.
“Is the baby…” I can’t finish the question I already know the answer to.
“We need to get her to the hospital immediately,” the lead paramedic says, but his voice carries no hope. “There might be a chance for the baby if we move fast enough.”
They load her onto a stretcher, working frantically even as they move. I follow them toward the ambulance, watching their coordinated actions give way to something more desperate.
“Come on,” one of them mutters, checking monitors. “Come on, come on…!”
But as they slide the stretcher into the back, their movements slow. The lead paramedic checks something, then exchanges a long look with his partner. The kind of look that passes between professionals when hope dies.
“The baby—” I start, but the words get caught in my throat.
“We’re doing everything we can,” one of them says, but his tone tells me it’s hopeless. “Radio ahead,” he says quietly to his partner. “Tell them to have the coroner ready when we arrive.”
The words slice through me.
Coroner.
Not emergency surgery, not intensive care.
The fucking coroner.
“Sir, please stay here,” the paramedic tells me, his voice gentle but final. “The police will need to speak with you. There’s nothing you can do now.”
Somehow, I listen. For whatever fucked up reason, my legs refuse to move, like they’re frozen solid. I silently watch the ambulance disappear into the night, red lights fading into the distance, leaving me alone with a crushing feeling I can’t even begin to name.
Gone.
Both gone.
Everything I had, everything I was trying to become, erased. Erased while I was buried inside another woman.
Behind me, crime scene technicians flood my living room with equipment and cameras, documenting the destruction of my world.
“Mr. Sidorov?” A detective approaches— middle-aged, tired eyes, the look of someone who’s seen too much death. “I’m Detective Cavesson. I need to ask you some questions.”
“Da.”My voice comes out flat and dead. Lifeless, almost.
“Where were you tonight between 10 p.m. and 2 a.m.?”
The question I’ve been expecting. The one that requires lies, alibis, explanations that will hold up under scrutiny. In my world, you always have a story prepared for the police.
“Business dinner,” I hear myself lying. “Client meeting that ran late.”
“Can anyone verify that?”
“Yes.” I give him the contact details of my brothers. My mind goes numb as he keeps questioning. More lies pile on top of the first, a tower of deception that will eventually collapse but might buy me time to find who did this. To make them pay in ways the justice system never could.
