Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.
The walls of the old kitchen, with its faded oak cabinets, peeling linoleum, and last-century appliances, are closing in on me. Too many people pack the cramped space, all jockeying for room to feed the multitude of mourners overflowing the house. Castilian Spanish braids with Russian and with English, voices raised to be heard over the din, as if there isn’t already enough chaos. As if we hadn’t just stood in the hot Santa Ana winds at Jordan’s graveside to bury my eighteen-year-old brother.
Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.
A vat offideossimmers on the stove, redolent of tomato, cumin, and garlic. A big bowl ofkutiais already on the table. One of my aunts, down from Portland, pulls a cast-iron skillet oftortilla de patatasfrom the oven, then turns in a slow circle, trying to find a place to set it down. Beside me, an older woman from Dad’schurch works a rolling pin with a practiced hand over apelmenimold, forming the meat-and-dough dumplings. Theblinibeside thekutiaare all I’ve been able to choke down all day, because the doctor drilled into me how important it is to eat for myself and the baby.
Babies.
Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.
The atmosphere is stifling. All I want is to flee somewhere far, far away, where I can forget this is happening. To escape my life and my reality. To become someone else who hasn’t destroyed her own life and her family’s.
Your fault. Your fault. Your fault.
The words pound through my head to the beat of the knife. They’ve been my constant companions since the day I found Jordan in that damn warehouse, along with my siblings’ questions.
Where is Evgeny?
I thought he was supposed to protect us.
Why isn’t Evgeny here?
The police don’t know who killed Jordan. There’s no evidence, save for the caliber of the bullet and the type of gun it came from. I called them once I’d gotten home and clawed together some kind of sense through the fog of grief. I made the call, saying my brother was missing, after all the unanswered calls and texts. I said I’d tried to call him, but he wasn’t picking up. Then I gave them the address as though I didn’t know where it was.
Some part of me thought they would find evidence to implicate me, whether it was security-camera footage, a footprint, or my phone’s location at the time. But it never materialized, and I’d spent days wondering if I was both extremely lucky and unlucky at once, or if Evgeny had “taken care” of the problem to save his own ass.
Probably the latter.
Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.
“Thanks, Eva.”
My cousin, also down from Portland, scoops a mound of potato chunks into a bowl and takes them to the stove. They hit hot oil in a pan with a hiss, frying the potatoes to go with the spicypatatas bravassauce. They’re my cousin’s specialty, and I usually inhale my weight in the crunchy, spicy, creamy potatoes.
Except today, the rich, oily scent from the sizzling pan turns my stomach, and bile climbs my throat. I throw the knife down, hoping it hits the cutting board, not the floor, and bolt upstairs to the bathroom.
I spend the next ten minutes heaving into the toilet until all that’s coming up is stomach acid. Then I spend another ten minutes on the cool tile floor, in the quiet, in the stillness, simply trying to breathe.
Finally, I crawl to my feet and brush my teeth automatically, going through the motions, just like I’ve been moving through life since Jordan’s murder, because nothing seems to mean anything anymore.
I’ve lost Jordan, and during my last full conversation with him, I said all those horrible things. And the man I was starting to fallin love with, the father of the babies I’m carrying, belongs to the world that took my little brother from me.
My father was right. Evgeny and everyone like him are monsters with no regard for anyone but themselves. How could someone like that ever love anyone else?
The darkness of my room is inviting, and I nearly give in to the overwhelming urge to get lost between the mattress and the quilt. Except my father steps out of the shadows by the door, and I nearly scream. Which is fitting, since he’s been a shadow since the police brought the news of Jordan’s death. He’s been as silent as a shadow, too.
“Papa?”
He wears a strange look as he walks toward me, slow and deliberate. The back of my neck prickles.
“Papa, what’s wrong?”
“You, Eva.” His voice is like shards of glass. Broken, rough, and sharp all at once.
“What—”
“I told you, Eva. I warned you. I pleaded with you to leave that man. I warned you what he was. You think I don’t know what that suit hides? The monster inside? No amount of polish can hide that.”
