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“Why are we here?” I ask as a thousand memories of Liliya burst through my mind.
“Your father is currently driving two hours for a meeting that doesn’t exist. The house will be empty for a while. I was thinking we could look around and see if we find anything.”
I stare at him, eyes wide. “Are you serious?”
“Very serious. It took some work and planning to fool your father into leaving, and I don’t want to squander the opportunity. I promised you revenge, and I will make good. This is one step on that path.”
I stare back at the house. “But you’re sending me back to Boston.”
“Yes, you’ll get on the plane tonight. For now, though, let’s rip your father’s home to shreds.”
I don’t move. Tears fill my eyes. I blink them away, clearing my throat, swallowing against the lump. “Liliya’s room hasn’t changed much, you know. He kept it the same, even after she left the house. Same with my room.”
“He’s your father. He’s old and sentimental.”
“Yes, that, but he’s also lazy and doesn’t love throwing things away.” I give Liam a hard stare. “Let’s go find some dirt.”
Chapter 34
Alisa
Liam goes to pick the lock, but I brush him off, brandishing the key that’s hidden under one of the downspouts. The interior is exactly the way I remembered, down to the paintings and the pictures on the end tables. My father hasn’t made a single change since I last lived here not all that long ago, which doesn’t surprise me. He’s not the kind of man that cares much about how his house is decorated. I wouldn’t be shocked to learn he’s barely ever home.
“I’ll look down here,” Liam says. “Does he have an office?”
“I’ll take that and his bedroom, they’re both on the second floor.” I glance at the staircase. A sudden memory hits me: jumping off the third step with Liliya, landing in a heap at the bottom, laughing our heads off, doing it again until Papa made us stop. “This isn’t going to be easy for me.”
“If you’d like, I can have my men do it. They’ll be thorough. We’re good at this sort of thing.”
“No.” I take a deep breath, steeling myself. “I can handle it.”
I need to handle it.
I’m not sure if Liam brought me here because he knew it would be cathartic to face my past, but it’s exactly what I need right now.
A heavy dose of what my life could’ve been.
If Liliya hadn’t been pimped out to Rustik. If she hadn’t gotten killed.
Maybe she, Papa and I might’ve been having dinner together this very night, if things had been different.
“Good luck,” Liam says.
We break apart. He drifts back toward the living room, and I head up the stairs.
Papa’s bedroom is at the far end. His door calls, but I force myself to look away. I start with my own space, though I know there’s nothing. I give it a quick, cursory search, smiling at my old yearbooks, my old photos, even the books I loved as a kid. But I don’t let myself linger.
Next, I go to Liliya’s room.
I stand in the doorway for what feels like an hour, but soon I’m moving through her stuff: checking her closet, pulling out drawers, rooting under the mattress. I try to make it as impersonal as I can, but by the time I’m halfway finished, tears roll down my face and drop like fat slugs onto the carpet.
It isn’t fair. Liliya was so smart, so confident. She was everything I could ever want in a big sister—protective, kind, outgoing, genuine. We loved each other, fought with each other, were rivals and best friends. I wanted to be her when I was younger, and even when I got older, I found myself wishing I could have half her poise.
I find her old field hockey stick, her soccer uniform, the beading kit she used to make dozens of necklaces and bracelets for her friends, her CDs, her journals. I have to fight the urge to sit on her bed and read all her inner teenage angst. Instead, I find a better hiding place for them at the top of her closet. As I’m rooting around up there, I find a box I don’t recognize and bring it down. Inside is a treasure trove of objects she shouldn’t have—a weed pipe, matches, a lighter, notes from boys, a phone she must’ve snuck into the house. Evidence of her rebellious phase where she wore a lot of black but never committed to the whole goth lifestyle.
“I’m sorry, Liliya,” I whisper, standing in the middle of the room, crying freely now. “I should’ve done something to help. I just didn’t know how.”
Nobody answers. The house is silent. Liliya’s gone, and I can’t fix what happened.
I turn away and force myself to leave her room.
