Karina

"Did they have lunch here?"

"Yes, officer."

"Right here on this terrace?"

"Yes, officer."

"Do you know where they went afterwards?"

"No, officer."

"They didn't tell you?"

"No, officer."

"So, they just refueled, paid, and left?"

"Yes, officer."

This is how our conversation drags on, dull and lifeless, until the officer finally decides to switch it up. I can tell by his sweaty forehead and his constantly shifting eyes.

"And you, by any chance, do you know which of the Gromov brothers was driving?"

I have to make a Herculean effort to keep myself under control, digging my nails into the palms of my hands. Anything but shaking...

But still, my voice comes out a bit choppy and shaky.

"Yes, I know. Mark..."

The policeman raises an eyebrow and looks at me surprised. Were you expecting me to say "no, officer"?

"And how do you know that? Is it possible to tell the Gromov brothers apart?"

"I heard his brother call him that, that's how I know, " I can't bring myself to name Martin directly and I apologize to him mentally.

It seems the police are satisfied with my answers, and I feel a bit relieved. I have to pretend complete ignorance and calmness, as I'm not supposed to know anything about the accident. Mark said that not a word had come out in the news, he had skimmed through them while I slept, throwing a leg over him and snuggling into his chest.

Oh my God, how embarrassing! I involuntarily blush and the officer raises both eyebrows.

We are sitting on the terrace, and I'm treating him to coffee and cookies. He's drafting a report of our conversation, and I pretend to be bored, glancing at the second policeman who is calmly walking around the terrace.

Suddenly, there's a loud noise from deep within the house, and my heart nearly stops. The policemen exchange glances and I jump up, yelling:

"Kozinak! You rascally cat, get out of here! "and I turn to the officers, putting on an annoyed look. "The cat's causing trouble again. I don't know what to do with him anymore, he's become so mischievous, I don't have the energy to fight him. He must have knocked over the flower vase again.

"Meow!" comes from inside the house, confirming my words, and I freeze. Mark's meowing is certainly convincing, but what if they want to check and ask to see the cat? Where am I going to find that lazy rascal Kozinak?

"I understand you completely, kyria Angelis, I have one like that at home too, "the policeman I was speaking with nods understandingly. He hands me the report. "Please read and sign this. If any questions arise, I'll call you. You don't have any objections, do you? I sign the papers, we exchange a multitude of compliments, and the police leave. I accompany them to the door and signal to Yannis and Menelao, who have been following us with a certain anxiety all this time, that everything is fine.

"What do they want from you, ma'am?" Menelao asks, concern evident in his voice.

"I don't know," I shrug. "Some men came to refuel yesterday, the police asked about them. I told them what I saw and didn't see, let them figure it out."

"Look at that, they came by themselves, didn't get lazy," Yannis grumbles.

The boys fully support me, and that's comforting. But I need to go see Gromov, so I loudly announce that I'm going to have breakfast, and when I have breakfast, it's best not to bother me.

Imagine my surprise when I find Mark sitting in my parents' room on an armchair, with Kozinak curled up in his lap.

"So it wasn't you who meowed?" I ask Gromov.

"No," he scratches Kozinak behind the ears, who squints his eyes in satisfaction, "it was him. He came in through the window and knocked over the pot. Didn't even break it, just scattered the soil. I would have cleaned it up, but I don't know where you keep the broom and dustpan."

"Sit down," I say gruffly and go for the broom.

"Karo," Mark calls me after I finish cleaning, "do they serve breakfast in this house?"

I don't let him out on the terrace, and Gromov returns to my room. He quickly glances at the poster with his portrait, and I avert my eyes. He has enough tact not to remind me of the designer decor in my parents' bedroom, and I, for my part, am not going to bring up the subject.

Mark falls onto the bed and winces, lifting his injured leg. I go to fetch the ointment, bandages, and Andronik's tincture.

"While I prepare breakfast, change your bandage and take your medicine," I say imperatively and quickly head to the kitchen.

It's not difficult for me to do the bandaging, but only if it's not Mark. Squatting in front of him and touching his body is a trial too unbearable for me. Especially when I catch his heavy male gaze. I don't want to test myself or him.

I bring sandwiches on a tray, coffee, and scrambled eggs with strips of dried bacon and cherry tomatoes. Mark eyes the tray hungrily, and then looks at me. Is it my imagination, or is his look just as hungry?

"And you?" Gromov asks, taking the tray and helping me place it on the nightstand.

"I have to have breakfast on the terrace, Mark," try as I might, I can't hide my sorrow. "Yannis and Menelao need to see me. I always have breakfast here, I can't give them the slightest reason. What if the police decide to talk to them?"

"Alright. Karo," he calls me as I'm already at the door, "do you have paper?"

"Do you mean printer paper? Or do you need a notebook?"

"Give me printer paper. And a pencil."

I bring what he asks for, and as I'm about to leave, Mark takes my hand.

"Can you fix the pillow for me?"

I want to refuse and even put on an angry face. But my hands stretch out on their own, take the pillow, fluff it, place it higher. Mark props himself up on his elbows, and we are face to face.

His lips are at an unacceptably close distance, making my skin crawl, and I feel tremors in both my legs and arms.

Gromov cannot fail to see the effect he's having on me, but he doesn't plan on stopping. He drowns me in the stormy blue of his eyes, and only Kozinak, jumping onto the bed, saves me from a total shipwreck.

"Enjoy your meal, Mark," I say with a voice as hoarse as a heavily smoking sailor and flee as is now customary, avoiding Gromov's hands firmly grasping my waist.