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The singular witness to Katya's death says that she saw a blonde woman in a white dress leap off a bridge that afternoon, falling ten meters into the river below. It was the height of winter—too cold for anyone to survive more than 10 minutes without rescue. Nobody ever saw her emerge from the other side.
Goncharov attends the funeral several weeks later, clad all in black. Attendees say that he looked shaken; like he'd never seen it coming. They're not wrong, though. Katya is sure of it.
The morning that Katya dies, she puts on her nicest dress—a frilly white thing that her husband always liked. She sets her hair in blonde curls and wakes her husband up with breakfast. He’s shocked, of course; she hasn’t cooked for him in a long time, not since he started coming home with the cologne of that banker on his skin. Andrey, his name is.
“What’s the occasion?” he asks, a warm chuckle rumbling in his throat. He’s confused, but not wary. Katya smiles her sweetest smile as he digs into the eggs. Goncharov cuts into the yolk; yellow ichor bleeds out onto the plate.
“Can’t I do something nice for once?” she asks. Nice. Goncharov twists his mouth into a wry grin. Katya is many things—inscrutable, shrewd, cold. There are many words to describe her, but nice is not one of them. She laughs, a high, mirthless sound.
No, she hasn’t been nice for a long time.
Before she was Katya Goncharova, she was Katya Michailova and the closest thing to death she knew were the fire and brimstone sermons they gave at church in Leningrad. But that was before Goncharov changed—before the Republic collapsed and everything went to hell.
Now, death pokes its rotting fingers into every crevice of her house. Everything—their curtains, tables, even their chairs—has been bought with blood money. She can't escape it.
Italy is different. She doesn’t think she’ll ever stop feeling homesick for the chill of Russian air against her skin, or the spires and domes that gleamed along the skyline when the sun hit them just right. But more than that, she misses the person she used to be—that they both used to be.
Her husband feels like a stranger now. On the nights when Goncharov comes home with blood crusted beneath his fingertips, she knows better than to ask why. Instead, she wordlessly reheats the dinner that has long since grown cold and sets it on the table before him. Before, the thought of being married to a murderer would have appalled her. Now, she looks at her husband’s ever-shrinking circle of confidantes and wonders who is next. She supposes she’s changed too.
She isn’t blind, either; she sees the way her husband looks at other men, the way his fingers linger on Andrey’s arm a touch too long. He comes home later and later each night, citing work as a convenient excuse. He’s a fool if he thinks she doesn’t notice, but then again, what else would you call a man besotted with his own enemy?
Fine. Let her husband keep his secrets; she has her own share.
She glances back at the plate; Goncharov is almost done, licking the grease off his fork. “It’s a nice day,” she says cheerily. “I think I’ll go out for a walk. Do you think you’ll join me?”
“No,” he replies dispassionately. “I have business to take care of.”
They both know that’s not true. The only business he has today is sitting on Andrey’s cock, but she bites back her tongue.
“Fine, then.” Her tone is curt, acerbic. Goncharov flinches. “Enjoy your day.”
“Enjoy your day,” he echoes.
The first time Katya met Andrey in person was at a party. It goes like this: the men gather around the table to play poker. Katya reclines in her chair like a queen, languid and impassive, her husband sitting beside her. He’s smoking a cigar, one of those imported Cuban ones that her husband is partial to. On his other side is Andrey; Katya pretends not to notice her husband’s wandering hand on the banker’s muscled thigh.
Goncharov folds before long, placing his cards on the table with a booming laugh. “I think I’ve had enough for the night,” he announces, taking the cigar from his mouth. The burning end of it has gone out; he reaches for a lighter, then thinks the better of it, setting it down beside his cards. “Are you coming?” he asks. He stands up, glancing meaningfully at Andrey.
“I’ll stay and watch,” Andrey says. His eyes are dark and probing, focused entirely on her. Katya ignores him. Goncharov shrugs, heading for the door.
"I'll see you later."
Andrey is shit at poker, Katya noticed—or at least that's what he wants people to think. He's always been the first to fold each round, even when he's been given an advantageous hand. Moreover, he's a terrible liar. His eye twitches whenever he's nervous and he fiddles with the golden watch on his wrist. But tics can be learned, Katya supposes, and she'd underestimated him earlier, writing him off as a fool.
Andrey's face is blank and impassive now, like it's been carved out of stone.
There are benefits to being underestimated. Katya knows that well. She considers folding, but that would feel cheap; she wants to win.
"All in," she says sweetly, pushing all her chips to the center of the table. It's just her and Joseph Morelli left.
Morelli scoffs, reaching for his own chips like he'll match her bet—then stops. He stares at her.
She lets one corner of her mouth drift into a lazy smile. "Well, then?" she asks. She leans forward; casually plucks her husband's cigar off the table where it lies and lights the tip with a lighter her husband gave her, his initials emblazoned in silver along the side. Morelli's eyes don't leave her lips as she places it in her mouth slowly, deliberately. Dark smoke wafts up between them.
Morelli has never been the brightest, more comfortable around those brutish ice picks of his than around people. He fidgets in his seat, bites at his lip. “I fold,” he sighs. He throws his remaining cards on the table. A full house.
Katya parts her hands and lets the cards fall like water. Morelli lets out a frustrated shout when he sees it.
A 7-2 offsuit. The worst hand.
"Thanks for playing," she says.
Andrey finds her alone at the balcony later that night, leaning across the railing. She appraises the man who's stolen her husband's heart. He looks back at her, cocking his head.
"You're not what I thought you'd be," he states.
"And what is that?" Katya asks. Andrey is wary; he maintains a distance of a few steps away.
"He thinks you still don't know," he clarifies. "But you see everything, don't you?"
Katya turns away from him, resting her arms along the ledge. The night air is cool on her face. The slender column of her white neck is exposed; vulnerable. Andrey swallows hard, Adam's apple bobbling in his throat.
"Do you love him?"
She laughs bitterly. "Does anyone?" She'd wondered at first about the true nature of his relationship with her husband; she'd found evidence of Andrey's betrayal months ago, but she's curious: will he mourn him?
He smiles, like they're old friends sharing an inside joke. "No, I suppose not."
And there it is—how pitiful. If she were younger, she might have felt bad. Now, she can't quite bring herself to care.
"Promise me something?" she asks. "When you kill him, let me be there to see it."
"Who said anything about killing him?" Andrey asks, but there's mirth in his eyes. "It's growing cold. They'll be missing us soon. Will you come with me?"
He extends a rough hand to her, pitted with old scars. Too rough; it is not a banker's hand, but she declines to comment. She takes it, wrapping slender fingers around his. It isn't a handshake, but it's the closest they'll get; an unspoken agreement passes between them.
"Yes," she says airily, "I suppose it would be best to return."
Katya has a plan in three parts. First, she has to die. The singular witness will say that she saw a blonde woman in a white dress leap off a bridge.
A week later, a corpse will be recovered, bloated beyond recognition but clad in a frilly white dress. Later, they will say she jumped out of despair. She'd uncovered her husband's infidelity and was too distraught to live.
Icy air floods her lungs as Katya's head breaks the surface. She glances back at the bridge where Sofia is watching. She's screaming and people are starting to rush over. Katya doesn't have much time. Her lungs burn as she swims to the shore, stripping out of her white dress. Even with the wetsuit on underneath, she's cold. She wads the soggy bundle up into her arms. She'll dispose of it later.
As Katya rushes into the treeline, the railing of the bridge is packed with passersby. She can imagine their words—what happened? Did someone jump? None of them will have seen Sofia help Katya push the first body into the water, a fresh corpse about the same height and build as Katya, dressed all in white. The head is cracked open like an egg, blonde hair matted to the skull by blood. It's inconsequential; they'll say it was from the impact, later on.
Her husband might be a murderer, but Katya has blood on her hands too.
After Sofia gives her statement to the police, part two will begin.
Katya meets Sofia in a clandestine hotel room the day after, paid for entirely in cash. Sofia helps her dye her hair. Sofia's hands are soft and gentle; Katya leans into her touch, breathing in the dizzying lavender scent of Sofia's favorite perfume. When they are done, Katya's hair is as dark as the river she drowned in. Later, they will leave Italy and start a new life somewhere else. Sofia is partial to Denmark but that's a plan for the future, and right now, they have all the time in the world together.
The final part is simple: later that month, Andrey leaves a note slid neatly through the gap of Katya's hotel room door. Tonight, it reads. 8, Lake Maggiore.
Katya shows Sofia, whose mouth twists into a vicious grin. "Are you going?" she asks, voice hushed and giddy.
"We did make a promise," Katya says, but there's something else she's neglected to tell Andrey. That morning, she'd left a similar folder where her husband would see it, filled with receipts and paystubs—evidence of Andrey's betrayal. She can't wait to see the aftermath.
Let the men play with their guns; Katya has her secrets, and she will survive.