THE CALL CAME later that night as she lay awake in bed pretending sheep were counting her.
A man with an endearing voice. The kind that sold flowers to women at the hospital to supplement his income during medical school.
He spoke proper Ukrainian. He apologized. Said it was a big misunderstanding. They’d lifted the wrong man. They had no business with her or with Marko. They’d mistaken them for some other Teslas.
He put Marko on the phone. Her brother sounded wonderful. Healthier and more sober than ever. One of his abductors was a woman, he said. A real looker. Vanessa from Odesa. She had a university degree with dual majors in nursing and massage. She loved motorcycles, green cards, and America. Her life ambition was to marry a strip club operator with a trigger temper. Nadia imagined how happy their mother would be when she heard her son was engaged. And to a proper Ukrainian beauty no less.
Then the endearing man delivered the good news. Nadia was right. There was a connection between Bobby and Valentin. It would illuminate the events the night of the murder and prove beyond a reasonable doubt that Bobby was innocent. The man didn’t get into the all-too-important specifics but promised an explanation so convincing the judge would release him immediately. With the court’s apology.
The endearing man said he had one last question before hanging up. Had she conquered her ethnic bias and accepted the billionaire’s Russian heritage? Did she realize he was smitten with her? Had she made the proper decision to go for it?
Nadia scolded him. That was three questions, she said.
No, the man said. They were all the same question.
Yes, Nadia said.
Yes, she was going for it?
Yes, they were the same question.
The torrent of good news lulled her to sleep.
She awoke an hour later, in the heart of darkness, to the sound of the real phone ringing, whereupon she received a simple set of instructions consisting of nine words. It was delivered by a gruff and somber man speaking course Russian.
Then he hung up.