When Linka leaves, just a slip of a thing in her too-big coat, wedged between Brusilov and Tyomkin and being escorted out his door, Wheeler stares at the space where he kissed her last, unwilling, or perhaps unable, to watch her walk out of his life once more.

His floor is polished oak, and he sees a scuff in the woodwork, a scratch from his shoes or the furniture - he can't be sure - and he stares at it, wondering how the hell he's going to buff it out. He hears Linka speak, call his name across the room, but he keeps his head down, his eyes trained on the mark, and he wonders: does he use polish or sandpaper on this kind of thing? Or should it be wax? And where do you even buy floor wax, or will candle wax do, or...?

And then he hears his door click shut, footsteps falling away into the distance, and he squeezes his eyes shut, clenching his fists, struck numb with pain.

She's gone. She's really gone.

And he missed it. Missed her.

And all because he was staring at a fucking scuff in his floor.

He goes back to his room, climbs into his bed and wraps the sheets around his body, inhaling the smell of her and taking rasping, uncertain breaths.

This is a mistake. Letting her go is a mistake, and the urge to run after her, to pull her back into his arms and the safe confines of this apartment, is so severe that he bites on his lip - hard - to stop himself from moving.

Mentally, he goes over the reasons why she had to leave, again and again and again until his mind is made blank with them. Obviously, getting Linka out of the States - and away from the threat of deportation to Russia - was the priority. But for Wheeler, it's the thought of Barbara Blight, with her twisted version of science and her unhealthy interest in the remaining Planeteers, which made him give Linka up to Brusilov and Tyomkin, over all of his reservations.

Barbara Blight killed Ma-Ti, an act for which Wheeler will never forgive her. But she did so in such a cruel and calculating way, destroying the Planeteers from within and fracturing their souls as well as their hearts, that Wheeler pales when he thinks of what Gi must be going through under her tyranny.

Of what Linka might go through, should she fall into Blight's hands.

He must sleep, for when he next opens his eyes, the bright fluorescent lights of the city stream in through his open curtains, making him wince. He turns in his bed, blinding reaching for Linka's form, before his arm hits the cool sheets and he sighs. He sits up, running a hand tiredly over his face and searching for his phone.

His iphone glows obnoxiously in the muted dark of his bedroom, and he reads the digits on the homescreen without feeling. It's nine thirty in the evening; he's slept the day away. Linka should be in London by now, he calculates.

That is, If she wasn't apprehended on the way, he realises, swallowing hard.

She doesn't have a cellphone, so he can't call her. Not yet. She promised him she would message him as soon as she bought a new one, and so all he can do now is wait.

Wait and wait and wait.

Wait for a message and then a call.

Wait for time to pass them by - again - so they can make a plan.

So that they can finally be together.

With another sigh, he stumbles out of bed, going into his shower and soaping up his skin, even though he's loathe to wash the scent of Linka from his body. He lets the rivulet of warm water run down his back until it turns lukewarm, at which point he shuts the water off, pulls on some clean clothes and pads through to his kitchen. He stares dumbly at the kettle for a minute, knowing full well that he's shit at making tea, that Linka always has and always will make the best cup, before remembering that he doesn't even like tea all that much anyway and opening a beer.

He's sitting in his living room, the television on but hardly registering the show before him, his beer untouched on the table when his phone rings.

Linka, he thinks immediately, his heart jumping in his chest and a sudden, piercing need to hear her voice striking him hard. He grabs his phone eagerly, before flinching when he takes in the name that crosses the screen.

Trish.

His mouth dry, he answers the call. They haven't spoken in... what? A year? Dimly, he's aware of the fact that Trish always seems to fill the void an absence of Linka in his life seems to leave, and bitterly, he berates himself once again for ever marrying her.

For hurting her, by dangling a love she could never really have in front of her for so many years. He knew Trish loved him, wholly, sincerely and without guile, and he knows now that he used her mercilessly, hoping against hope that she could fix him, that she could put him back together after Ma-Ti died, and the loss of Linka shattered his heart.

'Hey,' he says, his voice surprisingly heavy, and he hears Trish inhale sharply.

'Hey, yourself,' she replies. 'Got a minute to talk to talk?'

He shrugs, even though Trish can't see the gesture. 'Sure.'

He sips on his beer now, holding his phone to his ear and putting his legs up on the table. He stretches out, hoping that comfort in his body will make up for the extreme discomfort he's feeling in his soul, and waits for Trish to speak.

'I wanna sell the Brooklyn brownstone,' she says simply, and Wheeler takes a deep breath.

'Okay,' he agrees, without even pausing. He thinks of Linka, of the future they're planning - together, this time, thank Christ - and realises that Trish's coming to him on this matter is a blessing in disguise. He and Linka will need money, after all, if they're going to live off the radar for a few years. Selling the brownstone, that expensive, beautiful property with it's immaculate interiors and easy commute into the city, will accomplish that. 'Okay.'

He hears her give a bitter laugh. 'I thought you'd fight me on this one,' she tells him. 'After we split, when it stopped being our... Well, it was meant to be an investment property, after all.'

He hears her unspoken words: When it stopped being our home. Once again, he's struck by a grim sense of regret and self-hatred. He remembers Trish slaving over that house. Recalls her fussing over wallpapers and colour samples and tiling and carpet thread counts. Vividly, he remembers coming home one day to find her in tears over a crack in the sandstone paving slabs she'd imported in from India.

'They're just pavers,' he'd tried to comfort her, brushing the tears from her cheeks. But she'd remained hunched in a ball on the floor, shaking her head.

Because they weren't just pavers. Not to her.

He didn't realise it at the time, but Trish, with her burning desire to fill their marital home with exotic items from far-flung lands, was trying to replace his associations with those places with shared memories and things of their own. She wasn't a fool; she'd seen the images of him with the Planeteers - with Linka - in places like Thailand, France, Egypt and Bangladesh.

He'd danced with Linka on the banks of the Seine... so, Trish bought teacups from Paris.

He'd cruised down the Mississippi River with Linka all the way to New Orleans, where they'd drunk overpriced mint juleps from a bar in the French Quarter... so, Trish had their windows decked out in Louisiana style iron-work.

He'd kissed Linka under an Australian waterfall, the smell of eucalyptus heavy in the air... so, Trish bought acacia wood chairs and tables.

Wheeler swallows hard again. With Linka, he'd amassed memories. With Trish, he'd amassed things. Maybe, if he'd worked harder on making memories with Trish rather than buying furnishings, they might have gone the distance.

But then he thinks of Linka, of her smell and smile and how he feels in her presence, and thinks maybe not.

'It's time to let the place go,' Wheeler tells Trish honestly. 'Time for it to be home for somebody else.'

He hears Trish give a small huff, a bitter exhalation of air which doesn't need explaining. Wheeler gets it.

'Fine,' she replies. 'That's fine. So, we sell the place.'

'Yeah,' Wheeler agrees. 'Do you want me to contact an agent or...'

'I can do that,' Trish says tersely. 'I know people in the business.'

'Great,' Wheeler says. 'Thanks.'

For a moment, an awkward silence hangs on the line.

'So... how are you?' he asks her.

'Fine. Good. Fine,' her words are quick. 'Business is good.'

'I'm glad,' Wheeler tells her, because he is. Trish deserves to do well in life.

'You seeing anyone?' she asks him abruptly, and Wheeler inhales sharply.

'What?' he breathes, and Trish gives another one of those annoyed, irritated huffs.

'Don't play the dumbass, Wheeler. I said, are you seeing anyone?'

'That's my business, surely,' he argues.

God knows, he doesn't want to hurt Trish again. And God knows, his being with Linka will probably do just that.

'Yeah,' Trish agrees. 'Yeah, it probably would be your business... if it wasn't splashed all over the fuckin' tabloids, Wheeler.'

'What do you mean?' he snaps, and Trish sighs.

'You and...' she pauses. 'Anyway. The pictures are all over the tabloids today, Wheeler.'

He freezes, suddenly unable to speak.

'We're divorced, I get that,' Trish carries on. 'What you do with your time... who you do... is your business now. But a little heads up for me wouldn't go amiss, you know. Eight people have already shared the pictures of you and... and her... with me today. There'll be more tomorrow. You could've told me. Could've warned me.'

'What pictures? How?' he splutters, and Trish sighs.

'There's about a dozen pictures of you and your latest conquest -'

'Don't call her that,' Wheeler interjects instantly, his voice low with warning.

'Fine. There's pictures of you and her leavin' your apartment. Pictures of you all cuddled up at breakfast. Pictures of you wrappin' your scarf around her neck. The press are havin' a field day and they've already contacted me for 'comment', the bastards,' Trish's voice is tight. 'I wish you'd told me the two of you were together.'

Wheeler's already pulling out his ipad, loading up the images. And sure enough, there he is. There she is. The two of them, together, on their way to that cafe the first morning Linka was here. The images are grainy, badly focused... but it's undeniably them. Someone snap-happy and armed with a cellphone must have recognised them and decided to make a quick buck. Wheeler's fists clench, and he chews on his bottom lip.

'It's recent, I promise,' he tells Trish through gritted teeth, but she only laughs.

'You and her? Recent? Please, Wheeler. It's been goin' on for years, the two of you.'

'I was never unfaithful,' he bites back, but Trish is just as quick to retort.

'Not with your body, I'll give you that. But your mind? You were thinkin' of her everyday. Every night. Every minute you had to spare, you gave to her.'

Wheeler pauses, sits with a deep sigh.

'I'm sorry I hurt you,' he says again, meaning every word.

Trish is quiet for a moment.

'I know,' she concedes. 'It doesn't matter. Not anymore. Look, I'm gonna list the brownstone. We'll split the proceeds. I'll have my lawyer get in touch.'

'Okay.'

Trish sighs again. 'You took her to our cafe,' she says lightly, and Wheeler scratches his head.

'What do you mean?'

'That place down the road from your folks' apartment... your apartment,' she corrects herself. 'You took her there. That's the place we used to go to. The place I used to buy your fuckin' vegan bacon. Jesus, Wheeler, you couldn't have taken her anywhere else?'

Wheeler's mind suddenly does a double take, and he feels the wind knocked out of his lungs.

Vegan bacon.

He feels a fresh torrent of pain. Linka.

'I didn't think,' he says, 'I didn't think you would ever care.' Although the words are spoken to Trish, in his heart he's saying them to Linka.

Trish sighs. 'My lawyer will get in touch with yours. Bye Wheeler.'

'Bye,' he says, still holding the phone to his ear, even though the silence on the other end means Trish has long since hung up.

For a moment he sits, the phone pressed to his cheek, cool and hard. For a moment he takes a deep, steadying breath.

He's going to go crazy, sitting here and waiting to hear from Linka. That much he knows.

For the sake of his sanity, he's got to get out of here.

He goes to Florida to see his Mom.

He throws a few things into a bag, grabs his passport - just in case - and hops on a redeye to MCO. He lands to warm evening air and checks into a nearby hotel, before renting a car the next morning and driving to his Mom's apartment up near Daytona.

To say she's surprised to see him is an understatement.

'Jimmy, fuck,' Angie exhales, when she opens the door to him. 'What are you doin' here?'

'Felt like some sun for a few days,' he says, kissing her on the cheek.

'Really?' she's sceptical.

'Nah, I came to see you, didn't I?' he tries to smile, but it falls flat, and his mother stares at him.

'What's goin' on?' Angie asks him. 'And don't bullshit me.'

He shrugs. 'Needed to get outta the city, is all.'

She nods and lets him in, and he sits on her floral-patterned sofa, awkward and alone, while she makes him up a lemonade.

And isn't that just a hoot, his Mom making lemonade like an honest to God good mother.

'What you really doin' here Jimmy?' his mother asks him, once she's handed over a glass of tart and bitter yellow fluid, liberally sprinkled with sugar. It's too sour and too sweet all at once, and Wheeler grimaces as he swallows down a mouthful.

'I'm leavin' New York,' he tells her bluntly. 'Sellin' the apartment. Thought you should know.'

His mother stares at him.

'When did you decide this?' she asks him blankly.

'On the plane,' he answers honestly. 'On the way here.'

'Why would you do such a fuckin' stupid thing, Jimmy?'

'It's my life,' he argues. 'I'm gonna live it how I want.'

'Where?'

'What?' he asks.

'Where?' Angie repeats. 'Where are you gonna live this life of yours, if not New York? New York is the only home you've ever had.'

'No. There was Hope Island,' he tells her, and she rolls her eyes.

'The less we say about that place, the better.'

'It's my life, Mom.'

'So you keep telling me,' Angie waves her hand, sips her own drink. She doesn't seem at all fazed by the taste, and Wheeler guesses she likes her drinks strong... to disguise the lack of alcohol in them. Or maybe the years of alcohol abuse destroyed her taste buds. He can't be sure, and figures he'll never know.

'I just wanna be happy,' he says now, and she sighs.

'You know, Trish would take you back in a heartbeat if you -'

'Mom -'

'- if you wanted her,' Angie finishes, and Wheeler nods sadly.

'Yeah,' he agrees. 'Yeah, I think she would. But I don't want Trish, Mom. Not anymore.'

Angie stares at him. 'Movin' to Russia then, are you?'

He stares at her.

'Little Miss Socialism got her pretty talons in you again, has she?'

'Then, now and always,' he says bluntly.

Angie sips her lemonade once more. 'I don't approve, you know I don't. I can't approve of that sullen, silent, Commie girl being with my son, my only boy, and -'

'I don't need your approval,' Wheeler tells her coolly. 'I'm not here for that.'

'Why are you here then?' she snaps, and Wheeler sighs.

'To say goodbye, Mom. I'm sellin' up in New York. Leavin' for awhile. Gonna fly under the radar for a time.'

She stares at him.

'With her?' she says vehemently, and he shrugs.

'Eventually, yes.'

'Eventually?'

'She has some things to wrap up in the U.K,' he says. 'That's where she's been livin' all this time. The U.K.'

Angie stares at him.

'Not Russia?'

'No. Lin and Russia... well, they don't get on so well these days.'

Angie sips her drink again, but says nothing. Wheeler resists a sudden urge to haul his lemonade against the wall.

'Where you goin' first then?' his mother finally asks him.

He shrugs.

'I don't know. Maybe Atlanta.'

'Atlanta,' Angie muses. 'Then where?'

'I don't know,' he admits. 'I don't know.'

Angie shrugs. 'Should've known you'd do something crazy ass like this one day. You always were an odd one. First Hope Island, now Atlanta...' she pauses, looking at him intently. 'Always figured you'd end up in Colorado one day. I should've known.'

Wheeler nearly drops his lemonade.

'What did you say?' he asks, his voice nearly a whisper.

Angie almost smiles. 'You were always bangin' on about Colorado as a kid. Couldn't get you to shut up about the damn place.'

'Colorado,' he repeats quietly, as though considering the idea for the first time. 'Yeah. That's it, Mom. I'm finally gonna go to Colorado.'

His mother only shrugs, takes another sip of her damn lemonade.

'Figures.'

He doesn't go to Colorado, not straight away. First he drives up the coast, finds himself in a small fishing town somewhere in South Carolina. He spends a few days staring at the ocean, running on the sand of the beach, and nearly cries when his phone pings one morning, a message from Linka across the screen.

Yankee is all the message says, but it's enough.

She's safe. She made it. She's in Cambridge, and everything will be alright.

He sends a flurry of messages to her. Messages of love and support and comfort. A few filthy jokes, to lighten the mood. He sends her a picture of the sea, and then, once he's driven west to Atlanta, a few images of the peach trees for which the city was famous. She sends images back, mainly of her workload, but also of herself. She looks pale and tired, and Wheeler frets.

You look worn out. Are you okay?

Her reply, a few hours later, is short and to the point. I think so. I don't know. My stomach is all grasshoppers.

He grins. You mean butterflies.

She doesn't reply, and Wheeler goes for a run, to stop himself from calling her.

I miss you, like crazy. He eventually texts. Navsegda soon though, right?

Again, she doesn't reply, and when he wakes, he blames her lack of response on the time difference.

He spends another week in Atlanta, before going west again, to Missouri. He checks into a hotel in St. Louis, spends his time losing himself in the city.

He tries not to think about why Linka messages him so infrequently. He tries not to think about why her replies to his messages are always so short, so brusque.

He tries not to think at all, and just gets back in his car, and drives to another city.

He's somewhere in the deep south, Arkansas maybe, in a campsite hugging the Mississippi River, when his phone rings late one night.

His stomach drops when he answers it.

'Kwame, man, I am so sorry about not calling you back,' he apologises instantly, without even letting his friend speak. 'Shit, you must still be so worried about Haya... about her usin' your ring... and I never even told Linka about it... I'm such a bad friend, man.'

Kwame's voice, when he speaks, is eeriely calm.

'It does not matter, my friend,' he says. 'Listen, Wheeler, you need to come to the U.K.'

Wheeler's blood runs cold.

'Why?' he asks.

Kwame does not waste words, or time. 'It is Linka,' he tells him.

'What about Linka?'

'She is gone,' Kwame says simply. 'She is missing.'