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I look down on her again, and the bullet holes have become stab wounds. The gashes are deep, thick blood coagulating even as it streams out of her. Everything is red. It saturates her long hair, which, for once, is hanging loose around her. I reach for her face.
That’s when I see the weapon.
A bloody knife.
And I’m the one holding it.
38
GALINA
In the sunlight, the rose looks alive. I know it isn’t. It hasn’t been for some time. But with each little adjustment of it on my shirt collar, I have to stop and look closely before I remind myself that I’m seeing things.
Please, give me strength.
I turn the brooch once more—from my right side to the left. It doesn’t matter where I put it; I don’t plan to wear it out of my room. At this point, I’m simply delaying what I must do.
I thought about it all night, tossing and turning until my blankets were sweaty. My anger at Arsen made it easy to put distance between us. I strolled down the hall with my head held high, confident I was doing the right thing by sleeping in different rooms.
Yet, when I got to my bedroom and the late hours crept in, I realized how awful it was to be alone. Arsen had become something solid in this place. Without his warmth … the gentle patter of his heart under my arm as we cuddled … I was forced to remember where I was.
What I was.
His prisoner.
It’s hard to want to stay away from him, I think, adjusting the brooch again. Coming to rely on him for support was a mistake. I clutch the glass rose with a frown. No! It wasn’t. My emotions have been stripped of their protective layers, preventing me from the luxury of lying to myself.
Sure, this situation is messy. But if I can’t trust Arsen, what am I supposed to do? I need to believe he means me no harm or ill will. The whole point of me remaining in his home was so he could protect me from Yevgeniy.
Yevgeniy.
Clenching my jaw, I carefully remove the brooch. Tucking it into the box under my bathroom sink, I walk away as fast as I can before I change my mind. I can feel the place the brooch used to be. The weight of it was comfortable. Now it clings to me like a phantom limb. When I brush my fingers over my neck, I shiver at the empty space.
Dad is with me even when I’m not wearing it. Remember that. If I don’t, I’ll never survive the conversation I’m about to have.
Tugging at my ankle-length slate-gray dress, I check myself a final time in the mirror. I’m barely a week into learning about my pregnancy. There’s nothing visible on the outside, but I can’t help running my hands over my stomach. Turning to the side, I study my profile. A smile pulls my lips up at the corners. Think of what matters … Think of the future. Arsen is this baby’s father. Everything falls apart if we can’t talk about what my mother revealed to me.
I’m not sure where I’ll find Arsen. I start at his bedroom, but a quick peek reveals he’s not inside. He’s also not in the library or kitchen. I’m getting worried he’s not home at all when I come up to his office, spotting him at his desk through the crack.
The visual of his broad back and bent neck sends my nerves all over the place. I’d love to slip behind him, tracing my nails over his skin, drawing out goose bumps with my breath. My heart has been placed in a vise, and someone keeps screwing it tighter. Come on, go for it. Clearing my throat gently, I knock on the edge of the doorframe.
“Arsen?”
He spins around, eyes wide as he notices me. “Galina?”
He didn’t think I’d come talk to him, I realize. Has he been figuring out a way to initiate and smooth things over with me first? Our fight was pretty bad. His reaction fills me with guilt; it’s bad enough that I second-guessed having this conversation. But to witness his misery is another knife wound to my heart.
In that instant I’m sorely tempted to shove the whole mess deep down in my guts and pretend that everything is okay. With a simple smile and a hug, I can pretend that things are perfect, that I’m happy.
But that’s the problem. It’ll be nothing but an act. Sucking in air through my nose, I walk into his office and shut the door behind me.
“How are you?” I ask.
“I’ve been better,” he replies with a slight frown. “Galina … about what happened?—”
“Stop.” I hold up a hand. “I’m not here to rehash that.”
His eyebrows lower, head tilting. “Then what’s this about?”
