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WREN
I’m no therapist, but I’m pretty sure Dmitri’s dark mood has something to do with Elena.
Whoever the hell that is.
From the way that Dmitri reacted to hearing her name, I’ve discerned that she was someone he cared about deeply. I’m hoping for mother or sister, but my instincts are telling me that that’s not the case.
In my morbid curiosity, I end up siccing Syrah on the discovery mission.
WREN: Any leads?
Hours since I sent that to her, though, I still don’t have an answer. Strange. Also, unsettling. I’m still frowning at my phone and begging for three dancing dots to appear when a voice slices in through the stifling silence.
“Hello? Anyone home?”
“In here!” I squeak back, voice rusty from disuse.
Bee rushes into the living room, where I’m curled up on the couch in a nest of blankets. She’s looking like a hot mess in a sequined burgundy dress and four-inch heels. If I had to guess, I’d say she slept in her makeup, judging by the smeared mascara.
“Are you okay?” she asks, hurrying over to kneel in front of me and squeeze my calf tenderly. “I heard about the fall.”
“I’m fine. Just a little concussion is all.”
“Thank God. A little rattle of the brain is good every once in a while. Reboot ya, y’know?” She collapses onto the sofa next to me and kicks off her heels. “Dmitri sounded pissed, though.”
Sighing, I pick at the edges of the cushion I’m hugging to my chest. “When is he not pissed at me?” Bee smirks and I eye her cautiously, wondering if maybe our friendship is strong enough to override her loyalty to Dmitri or if I’m about to make a terrible, irreversible mistake. “Although, I have to say, in this particular case, I think it was less about me and more about someone else.”
“Oh? Who?”
“The doctor that examined me recognized Dmitri. I guess they have history. He mentioned a woman named Elena.”
Bee’s face freezes. “Oh. Uh… shit.”
That tells me everything I need to know. “Who is she?” I ask in a whisper. “Bee, who is she?”
She fidgets in place, adjusting the hem of her dress as though she’s suddenly conscious of how much leg she’s showing, despite there not being another living creature within three floors of us. “She’s, uh, well, you know… She’s Elena. She’s… someone Dmitri used to know. Before. Before you, I mean.”
I bite down my frustration. “Yeah, I got that, Bee. Was she his ex-girlfriend? A friend? Sister?”
Bee chews on her bottom lip and gives me an awkward shrug. “I’m sorry, Wren. It’s not my story to tell.” She gets up as suddenly as she arrived, picks her shoes off the floor, and damn near sprints towards the open archway. “I’m glad you’re okay.”
Well. So much for that.
I don’t think “interrogator” is a job title in my future.
Grimacing, I get up and start nosing around the house in the hopes that a clue might pop up. But I’m not any better at being a detective than I am at being an interrogator, because the only evidence of a relationship is Dmitri’s fake relationship with Bee.
It’s the same things I saw and noticed when I first stepped foot in this penthouse: shoes intermingled, his-and-hers clothes thrown here and there, that kind of thing. Although, now that I know the truth, I’m almost amused by how carefully placed it all suddenly seems. False evidence planted everywhere, almost too obvious to the casual observer.
When my phone starts ringing, I grab it eagerly. Sure enough, it’s Syrah, thank the Lord. I rush into the privacy of my bedroom and make sure the door is locked before I answer.
“Did you find anything?” I breathe.
“Just call me Sherlock Syrah, because?—”
“Well?!” I catch myself nearly shrieking and lower my voice. “What is it, Sy?”
“Jeez, someone’s eager. Why do you care so much about your boss’s ex-wife?”
