Because I’m not sitting across from Kir Lazarev as a reporter right now.
I’m sitting across from him as someone who cares.
“Yes, actually, I do.” He turns his hand over under mine so our palms are pressed together. “Because if I don’t do it now, I’ll talk myself out of it by morning.”
I swallow and nod. “Okay. Then I’m listening.”
Kir takes another drink and starts talking. “Her name was Elena,” he continues. “Elena Sergeeva Lazareva. When I was eleven, she got sick. My parents didn’t tell me much; I guess they didn’t want me to worry. So even now, I don’t know how sick she actually was. But her and my father took a lot of trips, were gone a lot, that sort of thing. I figured it was all related.” He looks down into the depths of his drink. “A year or so after the diagnosis, I was suppo
