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Wiping my face on my sleeve, I head into the master bedroom.
It’s fastidiously neat. Papa was always obsessive about clutter. I began to search in earnest, going through everything, all his drawers, even his underwear, looking for anything that might be of use. There’s nothing, only the detritus of a long life. Old pens, broken watches, rubber bands, some cash forgotten under an old detective story paperback. Papa’s ties are lined up neatly in the closet. His slacks are pressed and cleaned. His shoes are all shined. There’s nothing out of the ordinary, not behind the rack of suits, not in the bottom corners, not hidden behind a loose board.
Which brings me to his office. It’s located off his bedroom in the bonus space above the garage. It’s hot, but Papa had a split AC system installed years back. I don’t turn it on—he’d notice. Somehow the man can sense when someone turns on this stuff.
Instead, I hit the drawers. There’s some interesting stuff regarding the business, old contracts, old ledger books. I flip through them but don’t find anything good. As I dig, I can’t help but think how strange this is, going through my father’s things. If he found me doing this as a girl, he would’ve gone ballistic and thrown me out of the house. Now I don’t care what he thinks about any of this, so long as I get some answers.
Liam appears in the doorway after a while. He watches me, not speaking, before he comes to help. We rifle through my father’s storage cabinet, and Liam’s hand appears on top of mine, lingering there for longer than necessary as he stares at me. “You’re okay,” he says. Not a question.
He’s right. Even though my face is streaked by tears. “I’m okay,” I agree.
“Your sister loved you. I can see it all over this place.”
“You’re right. We loved each other. It’s just—” How can I explain to him? I feel guilty, yes, but also angry that she agreed to marry Rustik. I’m a conflicting mess of emotions. “I just want this to be done.”
“We’ll finish it then.” He squeezes my hand, getting closer. “Together.”
“Can’t do that from Boston.”
“We’ll find a way.”
I pull back, not ready to make up, and head to my father’s desk. Liam watches as I sit down behind the computer. Then without a word, he begins searching again, flipping through documents, scanning files, leafing through old books.
I crack my knuckles and unlock my father’s computer on the second try. “All he did was add an exclamation point at the end of his usual password,” I say, shaking my head. “It’s like he wanted me to log in.”
“Or he couldn’t imagine you ever trying.”
That makes more sense. My papa, arrogant, self-assured, so positive that his little daughter would never cross him.
Except here I am, going through his desktop, digging deep into his files.
It takes a while to go through everything. I even check his browser history, which brings up way more porn than I’m comfortable with. Idiot should use a private window next time. But finally, as I’m ready to give up, I pull open his email client and start skimming. Mostly spam, mostly work stuff—until I search Liliya’s name.
Dozens of messages appear. All from my sister’s address, all directed to my father. I break out into a giddy laugh. “He didn’t know the difference between deleting and archiving,” I say, breathless with excitement.
Liam drifts over and looks at the screen. “What are these?”
“They go back to… to before she got married.” I squint as I start to skim through. “Mostly it looks like she emailed him about work stuff. Some weekend plans… some dinner plans…” Then I reach the point where Liliya got sold off to Rustik and the first interesting message appears. “Look at this one.”
“Read it to me.”
I clear my throat. “Dear Papa, Things aren’t going well so far. You asked me to be honest. So I’m being honest. Rustik is not a kind man. He does not treat me well. Does that upset you? I’m sorry if it does. I agreed to this marriage to save the business for you and Alisa. So far, it’s working. But he makes threats, Papa. He knows he has control here. I don’t want you to do anything about it. I don’t want you to say anything, that will only make it worse. Only please, keep me in your prayers.”
I stare at the email. Her words play through my mind like a bombing campaign. Even from the beginning, Rustik was treating her poorly. My father’s response is dull and meaningless, just a few platitudes about learning to please her husband, blah blah blah, total bullshit. It pisses me off reading how Papa didn’t take her seriously.
The emails kept coming. Almost daily after that, complaining about Rustik, about how he emotionally manipulated her. He never got physical—he didn’t need to, apparently—but he made her life hell. Message after message, and Papa did nothing about it.
