“He’s eight.”
“Nine,” Misha corrected softly.
I looked down at him. “Nine. Sorry.”
He gave me the smallest smile.
Mikhail noticed. His hand tightened gently on his son’s shoulder.
“My son was missing for almost two hours,” he said. “We had people searching every street between the mall and here.”
The two men by the door shifted slightly at the word people.
I swallowed.
“I was going to call,” I said. “Once he was warm and calm enough to tell me who to call.”
“I know.”
“You know?”
“Misha told me enough.”
I looked at the boy.
He lowered his eyes. “I said you were kind.”
Those four words did something strange to the room. They turned the fear into something softer, though not exactly safer.
