Page 47 of The Lies Between Lovers

What choice did she have?

“My friend—the one in Italy—her ex-husband is—”

“Viktor Antonovich. What about the suka?”

Vera dropped her gaze to where her fingers picked and twisted at one another at her middle. “He called Hannah while I was with her. He said some things, or asked some things about me, but I don’t know if they’re important or not. I know he’s connected and—”

“What things?”

14.

She blamed herself. Her guilt coated every self-soothing rub of her palms over her arms while the nurse delivered, in monotone, the standard notice of death with a quiet, respectful apology that followed.

“The hospital will contact you with further instructions for his remains,” the medsestra added before giving an awkward bow-like gesture and stepping around Vera in the hospital corridor. She didn’t slow in her steps when she passed Vaslav where he stood only a few steps behind Vera.

The doctor hadn’t even bothered to come down. The old man’s organs couldn’t be donated, Vera needed time to contact family for burial specifications, and Vaslav had no skin in the game, so he stayed quiet while official medical orders came down through the proper channels. Vera never even signed a paper other than to make arrangements once it was all said and done.

Alone in the hallway, Vaslav focused on the trembling line of Vera’s shoulders under her white, draping cardigan because it was easier than staring at the walls. He hated hospitals; every hallway felt like a maze of the same colors, smells, and illnesses. He only ever feared his mortality when he was within the confines of a medical building. Probably because he’d spent the last good while running from what he’d left behind here.

Answers.

Vera’s sadness permeated the air so thickly that it suffocated his own hellish thoughts and phobias almost instantly. Sure, he could still taste the lingering unknown on the back of his tongue, but it barely even stung like fear.

“I’m sorry,” he told the quiet woman.

Vera shook her head, but the tremble in her voice was clear as she said, “It’s fine.”

No, it wasn’t.

He knew how that felt.

“It hurts to lose a friend—especially a good one,” he replied, silently adding to himself, a real one. Those were hard to come by.

Vera still didn’t turn around, instead taking a few more seconds to hug her middle and blow out a steady, long breath. “I’m tired, Vas.”

Oh, he bet.

“Last night to be safe, I told Igor to bring you to the house in Dubna, but if the musor are done digging around your place—you’re welcome to go home, yeah? Someone will be around to keep an eye on you. Don’t argue about it.”

She’d turned to stare at the picture of a sloped mountain crest on the wall, and other than her flinch when he referred to the politsiya as trash, she remained emotionless. Like a sad doll, pretty but full of tears.

“What are you going to do about Hannah’s husband?” she asked.

“Throw him in the canal like the last one.”

Oh, he thought when she flinched again. There she is—the doll’s alive.

Vera swung around to face him, then, but at least this time she was able to meet his eyes. Thirty minutes ago, as she had explained how and why her trip in Italy came to an abrupt end, she’d barely been able to look at him at all.

Or maybe that was because of the detail she gave regarding Hannah’s experience with her ex-husband ... one that was apparently still on going, if Viktor was calling to leave messages on the woman’s phone.

“You don’t have to just ...” Vera spread her arms wide, waving at him a bit. “Say it like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like that. So cold. You’ll just ... throw him in the canal.”

She had his flat delivery nailed.