I picked it up, my hands trembling. The woman in the photo was beautiful—dark hair, dark eyes, a smile that seemed to hold secrets. She was standing in a garden, the same garden I'd walked through with Gabriel, the same flowers blooming around her like a halo.
I turned the photo over. On the back, in neat handwriting:Elena. 1987.
Elena.
His wife.
I stared at the photo, my heart pounding. The woman was young—younger than me, maybe, or the same age I was now. She was wearing a white dress, her hair loose around her shoulders, her hand resting on her stomach.
She was pregnant.
I set down the photo and looked through the rest of the drawer. Letters, old and yellowed. A lock of hair, tied with a ribbon. A newspaper clipping, folded and refolded until the creases had worn through.
I unfolded the clipping.
The headline was stark:WIFE OF LOCAL BUSINESSMAN MURDERED IN HOME INVASION.
I read the article, my hands shaking. The details were sparse—a break-in, a struggle, a woman found dead in her bedroom. The police had no suspects. No leads. No one had been arrested.
Aleksander's wife had been killed. Not by illness. Not by accident. By someone who had broken into their home and taken her life.
I thought about the way he'd talked about her—the way his voice had gone soft, the way his eyes had gone distant. I thought about the way he'd said her name, like it was something sacred.
I thought about the way he'd looked at me.
He'd told me I was valuable to him. He'd told me he loved me. He'd given me his name, his protection, his bed.
But he hadn't told me about her.
He hadn't told me that his wife had been murdered.
And he hadn't told me why.
And Gabriel had told me that she died from an illness. Even good Gabriel, sweet Gabriel, had lied.
I found Pavel in the kitchen, nursing a cup of coffee.
He looked up when I entered, his old eyes sharp and assessing. He'd been with Aleksander for decades—longer than I'd been alive—and he knew things. Things I needed to know.
"Miss Monika," he said. "You're up late."
"I found something." I set the photograph on the table, sliding it toward him. "In Aleksander's study."
Pavel looked at the photo. His face didn't change, but I saw something flicker in his eyes—something old and dark.
"Where did you find this?"
"In a drawer. In his desk." I sat across from him, my hands folded on the table. "Tell me about her."
"Elena." Pavel's voice was soft. "She was a good woman. Kind. Gentle. She didn't deserve what happened to her."
"What happened to her?"
He was quiet for a long moment. The kitchen was dark, the only light coming from the stove hood, casting shadows across his face.
"She was killed," he said finally. "Twenty years ago. A rival family—the Volkovs. They wanted what Aleksander had. They thought killing his wife would break him."
"Did it?"
