Page 9 of The Lies Between Lovers

What should that tell her?

Eventually, once the church had cleared of anyone that wasn’t sweeping up between the pews, Feliks stood without warning, muttering, “I suppose you could say I’m used to it, now.”

Vera’s brow dipped as she peered up, unwilling to stand like he had. “Used to what?”

“Not existing in my world. Makes things interesting, yes?”

What?

Feliks didn’t notice her confusion, or if he did, he just didn’t care when he gestured toward the aisle and said, “Let’s get going. I’m sure they’re heading to the cemetery.”

It was the way he then brushed his hand along the sleeve of his jacket, and the tattoos that inked his fingers and the upturned spider barely visible under the wrist cuff of his blazer that finally made it click in Vera’s brain. She wasn’t usually so slow—his tattoos were like the rest of the men’s. The many who attended the funeral without much fanfare or conversation to those around them. The ones that had walked down the aisle after people followed the progression and casket.

Ones like the tattoos on Vaslav Pashkov’s hands.

She knew what they meant—a thieves’ mark. The visual, permanent statement of vory to the rest of the world so that everyone knew exactly who and what they were simply by a wave of tattooed hands.

“Was he important?” Vera asked, standing from the pew.

Feliks was already heading for the aisle when he responded, “Who?”

“The man we came here for today.”

The man on his way to being put in a grave.

Feliks passed a look over his shoulder while he waited for Vera to join his side in the aisle. Despite acting like this was, and calling it a date, he hadn’t behaved any more or less inappropriately than he usually would. Even his irritating arrogance and unbearable attitude was slightly better than normal.

“Important enough,” Feliks settled on saying after a moment.

“What does that even mean?”

“It means it doesn’t matter if you’re important or not. You can still end up six feet deep after you’re found wrapped in trash bags in the canal with your face and skull crushed in, Vera.”

He continued walking down the aisle, making his way one step at a time toward the oak doors while Vera remained motionless a few paces behind. She couldn’t escape the chill that had suddenly worked up her spine and cemented her feet to the church’s floor.

“That’s why the casket was closed?” she heard herself ask.

Was that why they didn’t talk much about his death during the sermon; why the man’s wife—a young blonde with a face hidden under a birdcage veil—never stopped crying from the moment she’d stepped inside the church?

“Really,” she heard Feliks mutter, “he’s lucky he got a fucking casket at all.”

Jesus.

She rushed to catch up with Feliks after he exited the double oak doors because she suddenly couldn’t bear the idea of lingering any longer inside the church. A very frightening picture was beginning to take shape in her mind, and she wasn’t sure that she was ready to deal with what it might reveal.

*

Vera regretted the black, closed-toe kitten heels she’d opted to wear with her dress. Mostly because had she realized what the day would require, like walking from the church to the burial plot six acres deep within the rolling hills of the cemetery, she might have opted for something less painful on her ankle.

Actually, had she known what Feliks wanted her to attend, she wouldn’t have agreed at all.

While the family and hearse were able to drive almost to the burial site, the old, cracked roads weaving in and around centuries-old headstones with family names she could no longer read didn’t allow for more than a vehicle or two at a time. There wasn’t exactly any place for a progression of vehicles to park, and she could see how the layout of the cemetery might create a traffic jam of sorts in a precarious location.

Not that all the walking served her damn ankle.

Every step was another throb, followed by an ache, and ending with her wince. Eventually, Feliks noticed.

“You all right?” he asked.