THE FLOOR seemed to drop away from under me. This was the nightmare scenario I’d lived in fear of since day one, but the reality was so much worse than I’d imagined. I stood there staring up at him, my mouth moving but no words coming out. If he’d had any doubts, the guilt on my face ended them.

He grabbed me by the shoulders and twisted me, searching in my ears just as Christina had. But when he found the earpiece, he pulled it roughly out, flung it on the floor and—

His heel crushed my only link to the outside world, grinding it into plastic shards against the floorboards. I drew in a horrified, shuddering breath and then his hands were on my shoulders, slamming me up against the wall. “Hailey?!” he hissed.

I swallowed, panting in fear... and nodded.

He stared at me, stunned, looking at my face, my eyes. Shock made his Russian accent thicken. “How?! How do you look like her?”

“Pl—Plastic surgery,” I said. I felt as if I was drowning, had to choke the words up through thick, cold dread. But the fear of what he’d do to me wasn’t the worst part. The worst part was the horror in his eyes, the shattering of all the trust he’d put in me.

He was shaking his head, barely able to speak. I’d grabbed hold of his forearms and I could feel his muscles going rock hard with rage. “Is she—Is Christina dead?!”

“No! No, she’s fine. That was her, in the bedroom, a few minutes ago. We had her in custody, but she escaped. We let her go, she’s fine!”

“You’re... FBI?” He spat the letters.

I nodded. The horror, the disgust in his eyes made it feel as if my heart was crumpling in on itself, imploding into a tiny, icy little nugget of black.

He pushed away from me and staggered back across the room. He ran one hand through his hair, slowly shaking his head. “You—Jesus, since the accident! The shoes! That’s why the shoes didn’t fit. God, in my office. The pregnancy test.”

He opened the drawer of his bedside table and stared at something inside. His body blocked my view as he picked it up. Then he slowly turned around.

A handgun, blunt and angular, huge even in his big hand.

“Konstantin,” I said, my voice shaky, “Please—”

He looked at me and my words died in my throat, my legs going rubbery under me. His eyes were so cold, a cold without hope. I’d seen that look before, when he was going to throw Ralavich’s man off the roof. I reached out towards him, trying to calm him, but I didn’t get past the first letter of his name. “K—”

“I trusted you!” he roared. His voice shook the room and I flinched and went silent. He started to advance, the gun raised.

I backed away, unable to take my eyes off the gun’s gaping, inky-black muzzle. Konstantin never used a gun. I hadn’t even known he owned one. He always used his fists, like with Ralavich’s man on the rooftop. I tried to force words out of a throat gone sandpaper-dry. “K—Konstantin,” I managed. “Just let me—”

“Suka! Traitorous blyád'!”

“Please!” My back hit the wall and my stomach lurched. There was nowhere left to run. I threw up my hands as if that could stop him, my eyes welling with tears. “Please!”

He pressed one hand between my breasts and pinned me to the wall. He put the muzzle of the gun against my forehead, the metal shockingly cold. I could see my own terrified eyes reflected in the gun’s chrome. And suddenly, I knew why he was using a gun. He loved me. He couldn’t hurt me with his own hands, couldn’t bear to put them around my neck and squeeze the life out of me. He needed the gun to make it distant and emotionless.

His eyes were wet. “Izmennik.”

I didn’t need to speak Russian. The meaning was there in his expression, in the disappointment in his voice: traitor.

I closed my eyes.

And heard him pull the trigger.