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CLARA
Something’s wrong.
I feel it in my sleep, comfortable as it is. After our luxurious shower and some considerable pampering from Demyen, he wrapped me up in a soft bathrobe and led us back to the main house. “As much as I love the guest house,” he explained, “I think we thoroughly ruined the sheets.”
He reminded me that there’s no “walk of shame” in his household as we snuck inside the sleeping house and past quiet security guards who pretended not to notice us. Demyen wasn’t ashamed to have the world know he just blew my back out three ways to next Sunday, so why should I be?
And that’s how we ended up in his bed, tucked under blankets and sound asleep after only a few minutes.
I was sure we’d sleep in until at least late morning. But something in my gut wakes me up from a wonderful dream.
I pry my eyes open to see that it’s barely dawn out—the sky is a bit lighter, but the first rays haven’t yet breached the horizon. Demyen is sitting on the side of the bed, phone in hand.
“What’s wrong?” I ask because I know it’s something, even without getting a good look at his face.
He sighs and turns the phone in his hand.
“They found her.”
A few hours later, Demyen and I are walking through one of Suva’s residential neighborhoods, scanning the houses for signs of the right one. I suggested we wait until it’s a bit later in the morning, but Demyen’s determined to knock this out as soon as possible.
At first, I thought he was going to tell me she was dead. The way he reacted to that phone call sure made it seem that way.
But he explained that Helen Cooper is very much alive, very much in hiding, and we very much can’t afford to lose track of her.
It’s a harsh reminder that this isn’t supposed to be a vacation. We’re here on business, not pleasure.
Which is why my stomach keeps lurching with guilt every step we take down this road.
“Sorry,” I mumble.
Demyen keeps scanning the houses, but frowns. “For what?”
“Distracting you.” I kick a pebble with my sandal.
He turns to look at me. Then, for the first time this whole morning, his expression softens. “Clara,” he says as he takes my hand in his, “don’t be. I…” He sighs and swipes his free hand through his hair. “Blyat’.I’ve been a dick all morning. I’m the one who should be sorry.”
I’m not going to rub salt in the wound. I appreciate that he acknowledges it and is openly owing up to the fact that he hasn’t stopped slamming doors or aggressively drinking coffee or ripping toast apart like it’s the limbs of his enemies since he got that phone call. The only reason why I’m even walking with him right now is because he stormed past me with a “Let’s go” and marched out the front door while the sun was only halfway up.
“Bambi keeps warning me about my blinders causing a crash one of these days.”
I halfway laugh, still feeling weird about it all. “Well, I just wanted you to know. I never meant to?—”
He gives me a look. “I think I can be responsible for what does and does not distract me. Fair?”
I manage a small smile. “Fair.”
He checks his phone for the eightieth time and nods at a house with a green door. “It’s this one.”
It’s a quaint little house with a bed of flowers planted below each of the windows. It could use a fresh coat of paint, but overall, it doesn’t look too shabby. The thatched roof is actually kinda cool. We quietly walk up the lava stone path to the front door and Demyen rings the doorbell.
“Do you think she’s even awake?” I whisper to him.
“If she’s not, she will be,” he grumbles. I shoot him a scolding look and he rolls his eyes. “Fine. I’ll be nice. Ish.”
He rings the doorbell again after a few more minutes of silence. This time, we hear shuffling coming from the back of the house, followed by the sleepy grumblings of a woman’s creaky voice.
The wood door opens. Helen Cooper, now known as Alice Tremaine, squints at us through the partial opening. “Yes?”
