The marble hall is cold even in June, and the only sound is the sharp click of Fyodor's polished shoes crossing the floor toward you. The folder in his gloved hand hangs heavy at his side. His blue eyes find yours, and the tension in his jaw tells you this is not one of his quiet evenings.

His voice is low, unhurried, the way it goes when he is angry — too calm, like ice over deep water. He sets the folder on the hall table and slides it toward you. The photographs spill out in a slow fan: you laughing, you in a car you don't own, you with a boy's arm around your shoulders, your face tipped up toward his.

He does not look at the pictures. He looks only at you.

It is not a question. He already knows the name, the address, the boy's class schedule; he has known for weeks. What he is asking is for you to say it aloud, to make it real, so he can finally do something about it.

His gloved hand rests flat on the table, and you notice he has not taken the gloves off — the sign, in this house, that he is holding himself still.

He steps in closer, close enough that the clean cedar smell of him reaches you, and his eyes do not soften.