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“I’m not talking about Tolya.” Pavel tilts his head in the direction of Clara’s new room. “I’m talking about the woman who went out of her way to get you the information you have because she’s a good, decent, kind person. Not some prodigy murderer who started killing in grade school.”
I grind my molars together. He’s not going to let this go. No one, it seems, is going to let this go.
“Oh, and just so you know,” he continues, “I got full reports back on her mother. She wasmurdered, Dem. Beaten to death and barely recognizable. I’ll spare you the readthrough of her autopsy—but trust me, you won’t want to eat before reading it if you do.”
I frown. “She said her mother died in an accident.”
“She also said her mother committed suicide. Her story changes because she doesn’t actually fucking know, Demyen. And that’s what I’m trying to tell you. Her own mother was murdered, probably in her own house, by someone who definitely wasn’t Clara and definitely has no problems with killing people who inconvenience him.”
“You’re not suggesting Greg Everett poisoned his own partner and killed his own wife, then lied about both, are you?”
Pavel looks at me incredulously. “It’s a far more plausible theory than an eight-year-old learning how to brew coffee just so she could poison the one guy who was actually nice to her.” He sighs and slowly eases out of his chair. “You know, I honestly thought you loved her. Really, the signs were all there—and man, I was so happy for you.” He gives me a sad little smile. “Now, I’m glad I was wrong. She deserves way better than you.”
My second-in-command calmly leaves the office, but he takes my sanity with him.
22
CLARA
The first morning in Fiji, I was pretty sure I just didn’t travel well.
The second morning, I figured my nerves were shot because Demyen was being so dreamy and perfect and romantic.
The third morning, I was so sickened by the sudden whiplash of Demyen’s anger.
And the fourth… and the fifth… and every morning for a week.
Maybe it’s because I’m sobbing myself to sleep every night. It’s become my new routine: wake up, throw up, sit in this empty room and stare at the wall. Then, greet Willow when she comes home from school like nothing’s wrong, eat dinner by the pool, try to tuck her into bed without her asking me why Demyen hates her.
What she did to make him hate her.
What she did wrong so she can fix it.
When that’s done, I turn out the lights, close her door, and try to make it to my bedroom without bursting into tears along the way.
And then I curl up in the corner and cry until I pass out.
Lather, rinse, repeat.
The day we came back, Demyen’s staff was just finishing moving Willow’s room from the solarium into a windowless guest room near the second courtyard. She was so confused and so terrified to see all these people just hauling her things from her favorite little paradise into a tiny, cold room far away from her Demmy. I carried her in my arms as she cried and kept asking me what she did wrong.
When she ran up to Mako and sobbed apology after apology, he at least had the decency to crouch to her level and promise her she didn’t do anything at all.
I managed to convince the staff to move Willow’s things into what would have been my new room, since that one was a bit larger and at least had one window overlooking the smaller pool.
It was during the move that Gloria came up to me and quietly let me know that I’ve been “let go.” She said we’re still obliged to stay here, of course, for our safety. But I’m no longer employed by the Zakrevsky household.
She squeezed my hands and reassured me that everything will work out for the best. “God won’t abandon you now, sweetheart—and sometimes, people just need a solid cosmic backhand to knock some sense back in.”
I’ve been in this room ever since. One bare twin mattress, no windows. A basic bathroom with a tiny shower but no toiletries.I don’t technically need any, but I don’t want to smell like Demyen anymore.
Every time I do, I just start crying all over again.
Pavel’s been taking Willow to school. I tried joining them our first morning back, but he discreetly stopped me and just said, “Sorry. Boss’s orders.”
So I’m a bit surprised when Bambi shows up this morning, car keys in one hand and a friendly wave in the other. “Hey, sweetie!” she calls to Willow. “Can I drive you today?”
That actually manages to cheer Willow up. She grins and nods, then patiently waits in the shade when Bambi gestures that she wants to talk to me for a moment.
