Page 19 of The Wrong Monster

Enough.

It was one night. One mistake.

One spectacular misunderstanding involving handcuffs that I will absolutely never tell another living soul about.

I shove the memory back into the box where it belongs, set my empty mug in the dishwasher, and head for my bedroom. I hate running, but it’s great for drumming every single thought out of your head.

Today seems as good a day as any to get in a long, painful, arduous jog.

Chapter 6

Vasily

From the street, the headquarters building for Deep Waters is minimalist with some chateau-like characteristics. It’s hard to miss in downtown Lake Placid, despite blending in with the other luxury businesses and restaurants. But one glance often leads to a double-take because we stand out. We stand out because we want to; that’s the best way to hide secrets.

The top floor doesn’t exist in the employee directory. The elevator lists floor 3, then the roof. Clients assume it’s an architectural quirk or a superstition; after all, from the street my building is obviously four stories high.

The employees know how to laugh off the questions and direct attention away.

The handful who know better keep their mouths shut.

I press my thumb against the biometric scanner; a soft beep. Then another as it scans my eye. Steel bolts retract somewhere inside the wall, followed by the hiss of reinforced seals releasing. The door, which doesn’t look as heavy as it feels, swings inward.

This isn’t your typical conference room. There are no windows or images of impressive projects on the walls. It exists in the center of the floor, wrapped in ballistic concrete. Cell signals don’t reach here, so I toss mine onto the side table just inside.

Neither do listening devices and laptops. Even a vintage Game Boy would flicker out because of the tech jammers my team has installed deep in the steel skeleton.

Conversation only. Pen and paper. This is a place for ideas, secrets, and plans that aren’t meant to be traceable.

Art is already inside, waiting. Built like an armored truck, he looks out of place in a suit. It’s Wednesday, which means he’s making his “official” visits to the Boeviks. They keep the day-to-day things running smoothly in Lake Placid and the surrounding townships. As head of my security, Art can kill with a light touch, but the sight of him in a suit strikes fear into men more quickly.

He nods and sits down next to Ariadna, who is spinning a fancy pen effortlessly between her elegant fingers. Beaumont sits on the opposite side, away from them. His briefcase is open, though his expression suggests he’d rather be anywhere else.

My eyes narrow. I don’t like the insinuation in that and stare him down as I stride to my place at the head of the table. Ariadna catches my gaze and I see the same judgment in hers.

The chair next to mine is empty.

It usually is, but shouldn’t be today. That irks me like a thorn in my foot. Just then, the door swings open again and my little brother steps in.

Timur pauses just inside the room, taking us all in.

“Are you sure?” he asks, eyes landing on me.

The hesitation in his voice makes my jaw tighten. I have to take a deep breath to fight down my frustration. He’s not afraid, he’s just not usually involved in this side of the business, but the question and uncertainty make him sound weak.

Not something I need my most trusted team to witness.

“Of course.” I gesture to the chair and Timur walks over, smiling tightly at Art and Ariadna. He sits and takes the room in. He’s only been here a handful of times.

Growing up, I’d made certain that Timur didn’t need to be involved. That he could lead at least a half-normal life.

While I learned to read ledgers beside our father and negotiate with men who settled disagreements with bullets, Timur learned to read blueprints at college. He went on ski weekends with a fraternity and made plans without considering who might want him dead. Because it wasn’t him they wanted, it was me.

I’d wanted one of us to have that. But success feels strained this late in our lives. I’m 48, just shy of a decade older than Timur, but it still feels like we’re 20 and 11.

When no one says anything for a few beats, Timur can’t help blurting, “So I don’t really know anything about⁠—”

“You don’t have to. Just listen.”