Irina doesn’t reply.
“цветочек, I just want to help. I won’t get angry. Whatever answer you give me. I just need the truth.”
Irina swings her feet, her tiny kicks reverberating against the leather seat. She doesn’t want to talk about this, which has me believing there is truth in what Serg said.
Cursing under my breath, I control my temper because losing it now would be the worst thing I can do.
“Ski choo-choo,” Irina says, and even though I’m not angry with her, I can’t hold back the bite in my reply.
“I can’t read to you now! I’m asking you a question. Answer me.”
I instantly regret the words the moment they leave me, but I’m just so frustrated. Not with Irina, but rather, myself. I’m so angry with myself for failing her.
Peering at her in the rearview mirror, my insides sink when
