“Clara cut ties with her family long before we met,” I tell Maggie quietly. “I respected that boundary because I understood what it meant to walk away from blood.”
My attention drops to the beer in my hand.
“After she died, there were details that stopped making sense to me.”
Maggie watches me but doesn’t interrupt.
I don’t tell her everything. Not about the money that surfaced too easily after Clara’s funeral, or the names Roman connected to old New York networks. Not about the conversations Clara avoided whenever her past came too close to the surface, or the growing suspicion that parts of her life remained hidden from me until the day she died.
“Clara was a social worker,” I continue. “She spent most of her time trying to help people who had nothing and no one. She loved that work.”
A faint ache moves through my chest at the memory of her coming home with frustration in her eyes because she cared too much about people the world ignored.
“She told me her family was wealthy and rigid. Image-driven. The type that cared more about appearances than happiness.” I drag a hand through my hair. “She said there were expectations she never wanted any part of, but she never spoke about it in detail. Only that she wanted distance from all of it.”
Maggie listens while rain continues tapping against the windows.
“Clara ran from her family and her past when she came to Savannah,” I say. “And I thought respecting her silence was a way of protecting her. I thought if I didn’t push for answers, she could keep being who she wanted to be instead of who they tried to make her.”
The guilt is still heavy enough to hollow me out from the inside.
“In the end,” I admit, “I couldn’t save her anyway.”
Maggie lets out a slow breath. “Did they hurt her?”
My jaw tightens. “I don’t know.”
That uncertainty burns worse than certainty ever could. Because Clara died before I learned the full truth about the life she left behind.
Maggie lowers her eyes toward her hands. “I think part of me understands Clara.”
I study her face. “How?”
“My father left before I was born.”
The admission arrives without bitterness or self-pity, just simple honesty, spoken as if she had made peace with the pain long ago.
“My mom raised me alone. I don’t know anything about his side of the family.” She chews lightly on her bottom lip.
“Do you ever want to know them?” I ask.
“Sometimes.” She shrugs lightly. “Mostly when I was younger. You start wonderin’ what pieces of yourself came from people you’ve never met.”
Maggie’s fingers brush lightly across the back of my hand. The contact fractures the walls I’ve spent years constructing.
“Do you blame yourself?” she whispers.
I meet her eyes. “Yes.”
“Alexei.”
“I should have seen it coming,” I say quickly. “I was raised to anticipate threats before they arrived. I knew there were tensions building. I knew rivals were growing aggressive after several ports changed hands. I still took Clara out that night.”
“You couldn’t have known.”
“I should have.”
The words come harder now, more honest. “I looked away for one night because she asked me to.”
