Page 88 of The Killer Card

Impulse has me ordering an Uber. There’s no way in hell Sonya would ever want to see me again. But after a night of watching my best friend absolutely fawn over the girl he’s about to propose to while sitting three seats down from the woman I would literally die to marry… I don’t know. I’m feeling like connecting with someone else who hates my guts.

When the Uber pulls up, I hand the guy cash and step out, taking a moment to appreciate the house. It’s big, but not too big. Certainly, nowhere near as lavish as the manor we grew up in. It’s upper middle class at best, which makes me feel a little better about just dropping in. Maybe she’s been humbled by time and more constrained means?

Taking a deep breath, I walk up the drive, fixing my tie, then my hair. I popped a mint in the car on the way here to try to get rid of the nicotine breath. There’s only one car in the driveway, a white Range Rover, which must be hers. Interesting. She learned to drive. Grandfather never let her learn when she was a teenager, said there was no need since we had a driver.

“Good for her…” I mutter under my breath.

Then, with another deep breath I don’t quite let go, I reach out to ring the doorbell. I tell myself I’m ready for this. That it’s been over twenty years. It’s time to see my damn sister again.

Nothing prepares me for the moment she opens the door. The sight of her quite literally steals my breath away because for just a moment it’s not my sister standing on the other side of the door. It’s our mother. Or what I imagine our mother would have looked like if she’d ever made it past thirty. Small, slim, impossibly natural blonde hair tied into a ponytail, a beautiful blouse paired with designer blue jeans. Her blue eyes trail over me a moment in confusion before she finds my eyes and the recognition hits her as well. Although hers strikes more like lightning than a brick to the face.

Because she looks exactly like Mom. Right down to the bruise barely covered by makeup across her cheekbone.

“Grigory…”

“Sonya,” I swallow nervously switching my brain over to Russian for the first time in years. “You look… Well.”

“I thought you were dead...”

Not exactly what one wants to hear from their sister, but I shrug it off. “Not dead,” I confirm. “It was a close call though. Barely got out of my twenties.”

She doesn’t laugh and my own grin slowly falters. “I’m sorry for just showing up like this. I promise, I’m not looking for a handout. A friend of mine was performing in the Ballet and—”

“You have friends in the Ballet?”

That’s right, Sonya loves the Ballet. It’s just one of the few other facts I managed to hold onto. I smile softly. “I have one friend, yes. Clara Ramirez-Roberts. She was—”

“Principal. Yes, I have heard of her. She is a beautiful dancer. A beautiful woman. You are… With her…?”

“Me?!” I shake my head. “No, God no, she’s dating a friend of mine. They’re actually getting engaged tonight. Later. I’m just her friend.”

“I see.” She looks awkwardly over my shoulder, and I know in my bones she’s looking for the motherfucker who gave her that bruise on her cheek. My fingers clench at my side. Then she shocks the hell out of me by asking, “Would you like to come in?”

I’m so surprised I reply in English first, “Yes,” then Spanish, “Sí.” She steps aside, and I don’t miss the way she checks the night again before closing the door behind me.

Her house looks exactly how I imagined it might. Lots of ornate heavy pieces of furniture, leather sofas, rounded stairs leading up to a loft overlooking the entry way, tiled floors that look like wood. Easy to clean were anything to spill. The chandelier is gaudy as hell, almost as bad as the royal gold granite I spot through the archway into the kitchen.

Sonya has a mcmansion. That totally checks out. How unfortunate that she inherited our grandfather’s taste.

“Nice place,” I say, because she’s clearly expecting me to say something. She’s wringing her hands anxiously. Beneath her left bell sleeve I notice another, deeper bruise around her wrist.

“Thank you,” she glances up the stairs, then back to the living room. Looking anywhere but at me. “Would you like a drink? I have vodka, rum—”

“Water is fine,” I tell her.

She nods, gesturing to the living room. “Make yourself at home.”

I don’t think I’ve ever heard my sister sound so… Complacent? Welcoming? I’m not sure how to describe the softness in her voice. I only realized after we drifted apart how she always looked out for me, in her own way. Keeping a tie in her purse for me. Warning me when I needed to disappear. She was never kind. There was never this warmth in her voice. Not like there is now, in her own home.

I always thought it was because she blamed me for what happened to Mom, and maybe she did. But maybe she kept her distance because she was trying to cause less problems? Maybe she did more to keep Grandfather off my ass than I previously thought.

Wandering into her living room, I take a look at all the photos lining the end tables and walls. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen a real smile from her, frozen in time with her arms wrapped around children who look exactly like her right down to their glacier blue eyes.

“You have kids,” I call, a small laugh escaping me.

I watch across photographs as a niece and a nephew I never met slowly grow a little older with each passing image. There are graduation pictures for them both. Another picture of a little boy much younger than them starts appearing and I watch as he gets super into soccer, recent pictures of him even wearing…

“Holy shit…” He’s wearing Cristian’s jersey in one of the photos. I pick it up, snapping a picture with my phone. I immediately text it to Cristian, asking him if he can give me a signed one to send her way when I get home.