Hidden in the Stars

by Robin Caroll

  He could relate. Ever since he’d been called to the crime scene at almost eleven last night, frustration had been his constant companion. Frustrated this had happened. Frustrated no one had gotten there in time. Frustrated there were no immediate suspects.

  Julian turned and stepped out of the hospital room, grabbing his cell phone from his hip. He quickly called his partner.

  “She awake?” Brody Alexander asked without greeting. His partner was not one to waste time or breath with small talk when there was work to be done.

  “Yep. Listen, we need to get Charlie up here ASAP to read her lips, so I can take her statement.” Julian stared over his shoulder at Sophia’s small and broken form lying so helplessly in the hospital bed. “And send some uniforms. I want someone posted by her room twenty-four-seven until we know what’s going on.”

  “Got it.” Brody hung up, business concluded. He might have an abrupt personality that had earned his reputation as an unappealing partner, but he suited Julian. After what happened with Eli, he wanted someone like Brody Alexander: all business.

  He needed someone like Brody.

  Julian put his cell back in its belt clip, strode back into the hospital room, and observed. It had taken the police some time to locate Alena Borin as Sophia’s next of kin, only finding the connection through Sophia’s mother’s maiden name. The older woman fussed over Sophia, but Sophia didn’t look like she recognized her grandmother. Maybe she had suffered some sort of brain injury in the attack. It would make his job much more difficult.

  But not impossible. Because Julian refused to let whoever was behind this go unpunished. Someone would pay for this violence. He owed it to Sophia and her mother. The image of Sophia at the crime scene was one he would never forget. It would probably haunt him forever.

  He returned to Sophia’s bedside. Her eyes were guarded as she watched Alena Borin’s every move: straightening the covers, gently bathing her forehead with the damp cloth. Sophia shifted her focus to collide with his gaze.

  The uncertainty in her stare tugged at something buried deep within him. Something he didn’t want to pull out and inspect. He cleared his throat until Ms. Borin gave him her attention.

  “I’ve called in a lip reader to take Ms. Montgomery’s statement,” he said to her privately, in a low enough voice Sophia couldn’t hear him. “This will take some time, and I’m sorry, but you can’t be present. Why don’t you go have some lunch?”

  The older lady scowled at him, shaking her head.

  “Ma’am, you don’t have a choice. This is official police business.”

  She glanced down at Sophia, then back to him. “I will not leave her alone.”

  “She won’t be alone. I’ll be here the entire time, and there will be officers outside her door within the hour.”

  A long moment passed. She didn’t say anything, nor did she move.

  “Ma’am . . .”

  Ms. Borin snatched up her purse. She smiled at Sophia. “I will be back in less than an hour, MIlaya Moyna.” After patting the foot of the bed and throwing Julian another glare, she marched out of the hospital room.

  Julian pulled the chair closer to the bed and sat. Sophia stared at him from behind her swollen face. He could read the wariness in her eyes as if it were a blazing neon sign.

  “Do you know who that woman was?” He made a deliberate effort to speak just above a whisper level. The nurses had mentioned she’d probably have a horrible headache when she woke.

  She shook her head—no, tilted it.

  “You don’t recognize her?”

  She tilted her head again.

  “You aren’t sure who she is?”

  A nod.

  Julian stopped. Maybe he should wait for the lip reader, so he didn’t misunderstand. She wasn’t sure if she recognized and knew who Alena Borin was.

  Sophia made a sound, but the pain it caused her marched across her face. She mouthed a single word, and this time, Julian understood exactly. “Who is she?” he asked.

  She nodded.

  He sat up straighter and looked her dead in the eye. “She’s Alena Borin, your grandmother.”

  2

  Her grandmother?

  Sophia shook her head until the shooting pain reminded her of her condition.

  “You don’t recognize your own grandmother?” the handsome detective asked.

  Well . . . her eyes did look like Mamochka’s, and she would be about the right age. It was possible . . . but, no. Mamochka’s mother had died years ago. That’s what her mother had told Sophia all her life.

  But she had spoken in Russian, with a similar accent to Mamochka’s.

  Had her mother lied all this time? Sure, Sophia knew the story of why her mother and grandmother were estranged, but Mamochka had said she’d died before Sophia was even born. Was it possible?

  If it was, why had her mother lied to her all these years?

  “I don’t mean to distress you, Ms. Montgomery,” Detective Frazier said. He smiled, and Sophia considered he probably didn’t do it enough. Not with those deep, frown lines etched between his eyebrows.

  Sophia could read his expression easily enough: if she didn’t recognize her own grandmother, she must have more injuries than the doctor had addressed. There was no way he could know Sophia had been told her entire life that her grandmother was dead.

  A twenty-something woman with long, auburn hair walked into the room. Detective Frazier turned, shook her hand, and they spoke in whispers. Sophia hated that. They were talking about her, but just like the nurses who came in during the night and spoke to the older lady—her grandmother?—they would do so in whispers so Sophia couldn’t make out their words. Why wouldn’t they tell her everything instead of everybody else?

  Was she so bad off? Mercy, was she going to die?

  “Ms. Montgomery,” Detective Frazier interrupted her morbid thoughts. “This is Charlie Wallace. I asked her to come by and help us out since she can read lips, and I need to take your statement. Do you understand?”

  Seriously? She looked at Charlie Wallace and mouthed, “Does he think I’m so stupid I can’t understand English? It is my first language, after all.”

  Charlie laughed.

  “What?” Detective Frazier asked.

  “She’s insulted you’re talking to her like she’s stupid and can’t understand English. She’s reminding you it’s her first language.”

  The detective smiled. “Well, at least you haven’t lost your sensibilities. I apologize for insulting you.” He pulled up a chair and sat beside her bed. “I need to take your statement. If you could just answer the questions, Charlie will tell me,” he turned to stare at the beautiful young redhead, “verbatim what you said.” He smiled at Sophia. “Okay?”

  Charlie moved to stand behind the detective. “Just speak to Julian like you’re having a regular conversation. Don’t try to enunciate your words. Just mouth naturally and I should be able to read you. If I miss something, move something to get my attention and we can back up. Okay?”

  “Fine.”

  “She’s good to go,” Charlie told the detective.

  “Great.” Julian Frazier opened his notebook and sat it on his lap. He tapped his pen against the pad. “Do you remember what happened to put you in the hospital?”

  The banging. “Someone knocked at the door. I was expecting a delivery from my coach, and we knew it would be late in the evening before the package would arrive. My mother answered the door.” She paused as Charlie said the words almost with her. “Where’s my mother?” She hadn’t heard a thing about Mamochka. Was her mother in another room here at the hospital?

  Julian nodded. “We’ll get to her in a few minutes. Please, I need to know what happened.”

  Maybe they needed to compare her and Mamochka’s statements. She took a deep breath and continued mouthing. “It wasn’t my delivery. It was two men. They charged my mother, pushing into the house. They had big knives. They shoved Mamochka across the room. I ran to help.
” It was odd to hear her words coming out of Charlie’s mouth.

  “Sophia, I don’t understand what they shoved across the room. I couldn’t make it out,” Charlie said.

  She shook her head. “Not what. Who. My mother. It’s Russian for mother. Mamochka.”

  “Ah. MAM-och-ka?”

  She nodded.

  Charlie turned to Julian. “They shoved her mother across the room. She calls her mother by the Russian term for mother. Mamochka.”

  Julian nodded. “Do you have any idea about what time this was?”

  “A little after eight. We’d been waiting for the papers my coach had overnighted.”

  “Please. Continue.”

  Sophia closed her eyes and summoned the memories.

  “One of the men grabbed me by the hair and threw me down. I think I hit my head against the leg of the old chair.” She’d tasted the sharp tang of blood.

  “Did you recognize the men?” Julian asked.

  She shook her head, then remembered her injuries. “No. But they spoke a lot of Russian. Mamochka spoke to them. I don’t speak fluent Russian, but I know enough. She was begging them to leave me out of it.”

  “Out of it? Out of what?”

  “I don’t know.” She locked stares with the detective. If only she knew. “You’ll have to ask my mother.”

  “Let’s continue, shall we?” Julian shifted and made notes in his notebook. “Did you recognize the men?”

  She shook her head.

  “Can you describe them?”

  She closed her eyes again. Their stench filled her nostrils. “They stank, like they hadn’t showered in days. At least, the bulky man did. He was the one closest to me.” She tightened her pinched-shut eyes, willing forth the images she’d banished. “Maybe a little under six feet. Bulky with muscles, not fat. Like he worked out.” She opened her eyes to look at the detective, who wrote down the words Charlie spoke aloud. “Built like you, but his shoulders were a little wider.”

  Julian Frazier stopped writing and stared at her. Something about his look made her want to squirm, but the pain prevented her. After a long beat, he jotted something in his notebook.

  Sophia swallowed, the pain radiating from her throat brought tears to her eyes. No, she’d push through this. “The other man was skinnier. And shorter. Probably about five-five or so.” She struggled to recall details. Nothing came to mind. “I’m sorry. I don’t remember much about him.”

  “Do you recall either’s hair color?” Julian asked.

  “The bulky man’s head was shaved.” She concentrated on the fuzzy images.

  “What about the other man?”

  She remembered the man putting a knife at her mother’s throat. “Dirty blond, I think. It’s hard to remember. He wore a black ushanka.”

  “A what?” Julian asked, turning to Charlie as if she’d mispronounced it on purpose.

  Sophia tried to smile, but it hurt her face. “A Russian winter hat. Furry. Ear flaps.”

  “Ah. I got you.” He scribbled in his notebook again. “Okay. So, after they barged in, what happened?”

  “The skinny man . . . he had a knife. He yelled at my mother. Kept asking where it was.” The scattered memories scraped against her heart. Mamochka had been so scared. Her eyes wide and her face ashen.

  “What was he looking for?” Julian asked, snatching Sophia back to the present.

  She opened her eyes and stared at him. “I don’t know. Mamochka talked to him in Russian so fast, I couldn’t understand her. Or him.” Tears threatened to spill, but Sophia blinked them away. “I could only make out bits and pieces of their conversation. The bulky man . . .” His hands tightened around her throat. No air! Tighter. Tighter. She couldn’t breathe. Tighter. Mamochka yelled at him to stop. Sophia kicked and bucked. His grip tightened even more. She couldn’t even scream.

  “The bulky man what?” Julian asked.

  Tears burned her eyes, but there was no blinking them away this time. “He choked me. Sat on my stomach, put both his hands around my neck, and squeezed. I kicked and struggled, but it didn’t help. He kept choking me.” Sobs rose from her chest, nearly strangling her as they exploded from her.

  Only the echoes of her crying filled the hospital room. She didn’t want to cry, especially not in front of these people, these strangers. Tears should be saved for her pillow, and she wanted to stop them from falling, desperately, but she couldn’t. She could only yell out in silence, trapped. It was as if everything pent up inside her had been released. Her whole body shook . . . trembling as if she was back in the house . . . back in the moment of the attack.

  “I’m sorry, Sophia. I can only imagine how difficult this must be for you.” Julian’s soft tone jerked her tears away.

  Her lifelong training called for her to use people’s pity as motivation to push away the pain and soldier on. She steadied her breathing. “I guess I passed out for a bit, because I don’t remember him stopping.” Sophia steeled herself, concentrating with her eyes clenched shut.

  The knife to Mamochka’s throat. “Where is it?” Mamochka shaking her head. The knife sliced a sliver into the smooth skin of her neck. A thin line of blood shocked against her paleness.

  “They wanted something. They kept asking my mother where it was. She wouldn’t tell them.”

  “Tell us where it is, or your daughter will never use her hands again.” The bulky man stepped down on her hand in heavy, unforgiving boots. Pain. Bones cracked. Sophia cried out.

  “Stop!” Mamochka screamed.

  “Tell us.”

  “At first, she wouldn’t tell them. They used me to try and make her tell them. They crushed my hands on purpose.” Sophia stared at her throbbing, gauze-covered hands. He was right—she’d never be able to use her hands again. Not as a gymnast. The tears threatened again, but she pushed them away, refusing the weakness.

  “What did they want?” Julian asked.

  “I—” Sophia concentrated as hard as she could. “I don’t know. My mother spoke Russian to them.” She shook her head, trying to recall everything, but the scattered images all jumbled together.

  He put all his weight on his foot crushing her hand. He bounced until bones cracked loudly. Sophia screamed and tried to roll over to protect her hand. He slung her backward and plopped onto her hips, straddling her. She kicked, trying to buck him off of her. He pinned her, bearing down on her. “You aren’t going anywhere. Ever,” he whispered as he leaned over her and wrapped his hands around her neck.

  His hands around her neck. Squeezing. Not enough oxygen! She couldn’t breathe! Tighter. Tighter.

  Then everything went black.

  “He crushed my hands to make my mother tell him where she’d hidden whatever it was he wanted. I don’t know what it was—they were talking too fast in Russian. Mamochka yelled at him. He pinned me to the floor and choked me.” Her heart pounded. “I don’t remember anything else until I woke up here. In the hospital.”

  Julian nodded. “Thank you, Sophia. I know this is difficult.”

  “My mother? How is she? Is she here, too?” Lord, please let her be better off than I am.

  Julian Frazier stared at her, his face whitening by the minute.

  “Detective?” she mouthed.

  Charlie tapped Julian’s shoulder. “She’s asking about her mother.”

  Julian closed his notebook. “Sophia, I’m sorry. Your mother didn’t survive the attack.”

  Every bit of . . . everything just left Sophia entirely. She couldn’t even cry. Her mind wouldn’t process the news. Mamochka . . . dead? It wasn’t even conceivable.

  No, it couldn’t be possible. There had to be a mistake. Her mother had to be alive.

  God, please! Don’t let her be dead. I need her.

  But the look on Detective Julian Frazier’s face was clear there was no mistake. Her mother was dead.

  * * *

  Julian clenched his hands into fists. Beat up, broken bones . . . Sophia Montgomery looked like a disca
rded doll. And now, he’d had to rip out the only bright light left in her life. He knew it was all part of the job, but this time . . . well, this time, it stung.

  “I’m so sorry, Sophia.” The apology sounded lame to his own ears.

  She looked like a stone statue, wrapped in gauze in places and looking like she’d gone twelve rounds with the heavyweight champion. That she was even alive was a miracle and able to communicate was beyond belief.

  “Politsiya?”

  Julian faced Alena Borin, Sophia’s grandmother who she didn’t recognize. He needed to remember she’d lost her daughter on top of nearly losing her granddaughter. Sophia’s road to recovery would be long and trying. He put on what he’d perfected as his reassuring smile and held up one finger. “Just one more moment, please.”

  He turned back to Sophia. “Your grandmother is back. Do you recognize her now?” Maybe she’d just been confused. Some of the pain medications she took could make anybody loopy. Add to that the trauma she’d endured, and a recipe for blocking things had been built.

  She mouthed at Charlie, who repeated what she said. “I don’t know her. My mother told me her mother had died before I was born. But . . . looking at her, I can see a resemblance to my mother. I just don’t understand why Mamochka lied to me.”

  Julian paused, letting Charlie’s voice fade away. What was he supposed to do?

  “Would you like me to speak for you? With her, I mean?” Charlie asked.

  Sophia hesitated. Julian couldn’t quite read the emotions in her eyes, and he didn’t think her injuries were what masked her feelings. Finally, she nodded. Julian waved Alena over. “Ms. Borin, this is Charlie Wallace. She’s a lip reader and has been assisting Sophia with giving her statement.” He paused, watching Sophia from the corner of his eye. By the slow rise and fall of her chest, it was apparent she was working up her courage. Or maybe she was trying to figure out what to say.

  Her lips moved and Charlie spoke. “Who are you?”

  Julian took in Alena’s slight step backward, as if she’d been

  gently shoved. It was only for a moment, then she squared her shoulders. “MIlaya Moyna, I am your grandmother. Babushka.”