He smiles acidly. Then, with a melodramatic flourish, he rips the pillowcase away from his prisoner. First, it’s nothing but a mess of long, tangled hair. Then Konstantin grabs the person by the neck and forces them into the camera.
There is no background visible now. No adjustment for the lens to make.
The entire screen is filled from corner to corner with the bruised, terrified face of Katerina Sokolov.
“Katerina,” I breathe. It’s so soft that the microphone doesn’t pick up the sound, but they can see my face.
She’s thin and pale, even considering that she shares the Sokolov family genes. Her hair is a riot of knots fanning out around her head. The mottled color in her face is half-bruising, half bags of sleep deprivation piling up beneath her eyes.
Suddenly, she’s jerked back. Mikh
