I shake my head. “No, I mean, I can’t because it’s in Russian.”

“Oh.” He looks out the window as the bus slows. “Yeah, that’s a problem. You going to let Yakov read it?”

“I might if he really is Jacob.”

The bus drops us off a couple of blocks from his house, and we spend the walk talking about how we’re going to handle Yakov.

“Soften him up first,” Max instructs. “Then you can hit him with the one-two knockout. Find out who he really is.”

I’m as ready as I can be when Yakov opens the door. He’s wearing a Kiss the Chef apron that barely covers his stomach. Somehow it makes him look even more intimidating.

“Ah, little Tatyana,” he says with a jovial laugh. “You are persistent, da?”

“Are you Jacob?” I blurt.

“Way to lead up to it,” Max mutters under his breath.

Olivia shoves his arm. “Shut it.”

Yakov frowns down at me, but it’s not a scary frown. It’s more of a sad frown, his eyes shining with something I noticed the last time he saw Gram. Protective, but filled with love. Like how Gram looks at Clay and me.

“Yakov is Russian for Jacob,” he acknowledges. “But only one person ever calls me Jacob. I think you know who, da?”

I show him the journal. “I need to know about Gram’s life in Russia. I know there’s a secret—something I’m missing. You’re a loyal friend to her and her oldest friend. I even know your dad was a monster and that she was the person you turned to when he took his anger out on you and your mom. She told me the stories.”

He glances back inside. “Come with me,” he says, stepping outside and closing the door behind him. He stalks around the side of the house, motioning for us to follow.

“He’s taking us to where he tortures his victims,” Olivia whispers.

I elbow her and glare.

“She might be onto something,” Max mutters, eyeing the narrow path between the tall hedge and outer stucco walls of the house. We’re completely secluded from the road.

I roll my eyes. This is Gram’s Jacob. He’s not going to hurt us.

Yakov ushers us into a small office off the side of the garage. It’s surprisingly airy, decorated with leather couches and a huge mahogany desk. He points to a couch. “Sit.”

I perch on the edge, my fingers tapping nervously against the back of the journal. I can’t let him brush us off again. I need to know. He puts his hand out for the journal. I let it go, my grip tightening on the edge before he takes it. Yakov flips it open to the first page and starts to read.