Alexei puts his hand at my back, urges me forward. “They told me men don’t cry.”

I stop and spin on him. “You were just a kid.”

Blue eyes find mine. “I am Russian.”

When Alexei starts down the hall, I’m by his side. There is no sense in arguing, in telling him that it’s okay to cry. It’s not okay sometimes—I know that. After all, one time I cried so hard and for so long that I ended up in a place like this.

I’m trying not to think about that when a man appears in the doorway in front of us, a smirk across his face.

He wears a gray suit and has a very thin mustache and looks like the villain in an Agatha Christie novel. I half expect him to swing a greatcoat around his shoulders and try to kill us both with a sword he keeps hidden in an umbrella.

I ease closer to Alexei.

“I was told that we had guests,” the man says. I don’t know how he knows that we speak English, and I don’t ask.

Or care.

“We are here to see Karina Volkov,” Alexei says. He doesn’t say my mother.

The man with the mustache looks like he finds this amusing. “I am Viktor Krupin. Welcome to Binevale. I am the director of this facility. It is not often that people drive willingly through our gates.”

“We would not have come were it not important. My mother is Karina Volkov. I need to see her. Please.”

“Oh, I’m afraid we have no patients by that name.” He eyes us skeptically. “And we have no patients who receive guests.”

“I’m her son,” Alexei says. It feels like this admission costs him, like it’s something he’s spent years hiding, even from himself.

Viktor shakes his head. “You will not find your mother here.”

When I look up at Alexei, I can see the truth of those words reflected in his eyes.

Alexei’s mother isn’t here. She is a dream of his that has been dead for a very long time. But the Karina who lives here has answers. It’s that Karina I’m desperate to see.

“This woman.” Alexei takes out a phone and shows Viktor the picture Megan took. It’s cropped, and even through the fence the woman’s face is clear.

“We need to see her,” Alexei says.

But Viktor shakes his head. He lets his gaze slide onto me.

“That is impossible.”

I don’t miss a beat. I just ask, “How much?”

“Excuse me?” Viktor almost succeeds in acting confused.

“How much to speak to the woman in that picture?”

“There is no amount of money that would make such a thing possible.” He sounds smug and indignant, but it’s an act. I can tell.

Alexei must think so, too, because he rattles off a string of Russian that I can’t hope to understand.

Viktor’s gaze narrows. He practically glares. “Nyet.”

Alexei is just opening his mouth to reply when I step forward. “Who is she?” I ask.

Viktor seems confused by the question. “Excuse me?”

“If that woman isn’t Karina Volkov, then who is she?”

There’s a glimmer in Viktor’s eye, as if one of us has finally stumbled upon the right question.

I watch him weigh it, considering. I have no idea what he wants to say, because at just that moment, a woman’s voice asks, “Viktor?” Her accent is thick.

“If you will excuse me,” Viktor says, then turns and goes to her. They whisper low and close. I look at Alexei, but even he can’t understand what’s going on.

I don’t recognize the look on Viktor’s face as he turns back to us. “It seems I was mistaken. If you will come this way …”

I can imagine Megan sitting behind a laptop somewhere, easing her way into whatever ancient system keeps this place running, telling them to let us in.

Alexei must be imagining it, too, because he whispers, “Megan?”

“That’s my bet,” I say as we climb the stairs.

When we reach the second floor, the lights are harsher, the smell of chemicals stronger. The floor beneath us is white-tiled and ancient, and our footsteps echo down the long, cold hall.

When Viktor reaches a pair of heavy doors, we pause. Thick, filthy windows show a blurry outline of life on the other side. Viktor looks through a slot beside the doors and says something in Russian. A few seconds later, they open with an ominous creak. I don’t jump until we’re on the other side and the doors slam shut.

I already know what life is like on this side.

Megan was right. This place was built like a fortress, but everywhere I look there are signs of decay. Floor tiles are missing and water stains cover the ceiling like a dingy patchwork quilt. There’s cardboard duct-taped over a part of one grimy window.

Somewhere, someone sings a song in Russian. It sounds sad and off-key. Water drips from a pipe, an ominous, rhythmic tick that feels almost like a bomb.

But the thing I notice most—the thing that makes me tremble—is the screaming.

“Gracie?” Alexei asks.

“I’m okay,” I tell him.

He turns, and I know he’s hearing what I’m hearing. I’m pretty sure he’s thinking what I’m thinking.

“I would not blame you if you left. I can ask your questions.”

“No,” I say, and walk on, following Viktor past an empty room. The door is open and the sheets are mussed. Restraints dangle empty from the headboard, waiting for someone to return.