I CAN’T STOP PACING AROUND.
Dmitry and my bedroom has been cleaned by the maids, and I’ve also taken a bath, now dressed in a simple black dress that stops just above my knees. And Dmitry still hasn’t returned from meeting his father as agreed on.
But him being with his father is not what I’m bothered about. It’s the fact that I can’t tell him what I have to say if he doesn’t arrive anytime soon, and as each minute passes, s**t would only get worse.
The voice and image of the guard who’d informed us of Sergei Orlov’s arrival — Andrei, his name tag read — keeps playing on my mind on a loop, continuously making me pace around with my hands gripping my hair as if to pull them out of their roots.
Andrei is the mole. He is the man I heard speaking on the phone the other night. And he is Igo
