Page 72 of Lethal Obsession

I stare at the photograph, my heart thudding. Slowly I enlarge it, devouring every detail as if I could touch him. He’s turned away from the camera, toward the sea. I wish I could see his face, his expression, but all I have to go by is the hand gripping the railing. I zoom in on it, then suddenly freeze, holding my breath.

That isn’t Alexei’s hand.

I know it the same way I can recall every touch of his fingers on my skin. I know the shape of Alexei’s hands almost as well as my own. They’ve haunted my dreams for years now, and barely two weeks ago they touched places on my body nobody else ever has.

I enlarge the photo again, staring at the hand until my eyes water. It might not be Alexei’s, but there’s something familiar about the long fingers, the loose grip on the railing.

Loose.

And suddenly, I get it. I zoom in on the profile, but even up close, it’s grainy and indistinct. Not that it matters. I know those hands, and I know who is wearing that eye patch.

Lars.

Hastily I flick through the most recent articles on the Darkside.

There’s a batch of Alexei in Cuba. Again, he’s shown in grainy profile, as if he’s trying to hide from the cameras.

Sitting with a girl on his knee, shielding his face from view.

Leaning against the yacht railing, his back to the camera.

At least a dozen photos, none of which ever show his face clearly, but which all offer glimpses of his eye patch, enough to fool most observers. The captions all hint at a secret romance with a recently divorced actress, one I happen to know is a close friend of Lars.

Only I know the person in those photos isn’t Alexei.

Even surrounded by a phalanx of security, his face shielded from the cameras, I just know. I’ve seen him and Lars side by side enough times to notice the tiny differences others might miss. And even if they look uncannily similar, there’s just something unmistakable about the way Alexei holds himself, a certain grim tension that can’t be feigned. These photos might be enough to fool the public, and probably anyone looking for him, but I know the person in them is Lars.

The first tremors of excitement trip my heart.

Lars is pretending to be Alexei, and he’s using the Darkside to give credence to his story.

Which means that Alexei is somewhere else entirely.

My phone vibrates again, with another message from Benny. Lars’s friends will be in touch, it reads. Have fun at your yacht party. Look out for ☠.

I stare at the skull and crossbones emoji, heat rushing through me.

Pirates.

Alexei isn’t just somewhere else.

He’s close by.

On the yacht Lars mentioned?

Hugging myself, I spin tightly on the spot, a half scream stuck in my throat.

I’m awake, but I’m not in Granada.

I’m back in the concrete cell beneath the Miami compound, woken in the middle of the night by a noise I can’t place.

I know it’s night because the harsh fluorescent lights in our room are dimmed. I hate not knowing what time it is exactly. The only way I can measure it is by how much I feel like I’ve slept. I also know that Alexei usually leaves us at some point during the night, replaced by Dima, the same man who drove the limousine the day we arrived, whom Alexei clearly trusts. It’s usually only for a short time, while Alexei showers and changes, and, I assume, tries to sleep for an hour or so. At first, I think that is what I’m hearing, just the change of guards.

Then I realize that Alexei and Dima are talking.

It’s a low, hushed whisper, barely audible, and they clearly think I’m asleep.

“How many?” Alexei asks.