by Alice Sharpe
She led him into the town of Slovo, its narrow cobbled streets crowded with what must be rush-hour traffic. It took several minutes to get to the far edge of town, and then she turned down a road that seemed to skirt the lake. After a mile or so, he began to get nervous about getting stuck out here and wished he’d ridden in Irina’s truck, which sat a lot farther off the ground than his rental and probably sported four-wheel drive.
Finally he made out a small house ahead, set off by itself. He parked beside Irina’s truck and walked with her to the front door.
It opened as soon as they stepped onto the porch and an elderly man motioned them inside. He spoke to Irina in his own language, and Cole found himself wishing he could have brought Skylar along because now he was at the mercy of Irina’s translations.
He reminded himself his brother John had trusted Irina. He’d lived down the street from her right here in Slovo when he was a kid and had reconnected years later when he’d come to try to understand his past.
“This man’s name is Roman,” she said, turning to Cole and switching to English. “He doesn’t call himself that anymore. Now his name is Tincte, but years ago and in his heart, he is Roman. That’s his last name, the only name he needed until this. He’s given me permission to tell you that. Does his name mean anything to you?”
“Roman was the last name of the young woman the ambassador supposedly had an affair with and killed.”
“Yes. This man is her father and the last remaining member of his family. Two of his sons were murdered many years before by a man your brother John ran into a few months ago back in the United States.”
“I know who you mean. Smirnoff. John told me about him.”
“Good. You know that John asked me to keep asking questions after he left Kanistan the last time.”
“Yes. I know the first time he came here he questioned the people who raised him and that they were murdered when they called Traterg police for help in dealing with him.”
“Yes, I discovered that call myself.
“Why did Smirnoff kill Roman’s sons?”
“That was the conclusion of the police investigation,” Irina added. “Mind you, these are the same police that said Roman and his sons were responsible for the retaliatory bomb that destroyed the ambassador, his wife and their three sons. Roman’s own boys were killed, supposedly during an arrest attempt. Roman and his wife got away and have been hiding ever since. He claims they had nothing to do with sending a bomb.”
Cole looked closely at the old man as he spoke to Irina. “How did you find this man?”
“I didn’t. He found me. His wife passed away recently, and he contacted a trusted friend with the news. That person told Roman I had been asking questions.”
The old man touched her shoulder, and she turned to him. He spoke to her in a weedy voice, emotion etching deep lines down his face, bracketing his mouth.
“He’s been ashamed,” she said, looking back at Cole.
“Ashamed? Why?”
“Because he didn’t avenge his children. Because his wife died without her family. Because he lost everything, and to protect what little he had left he changed careers, going from a professor to a fisherman. And because he heard rumors that papers were forged and documents altered.”
“Tell him I understand,” Cole said gently.
The old man’s eyes watered as Irina spoke to him, and he sagged a little. Cole caught his arm and supported him over to a chair pulled up to an old, scarred table.
“If Roman and his sons didn’t send the bomb, does he know who did? Does he have any idea who his daughter was really seeing?”
Irina talked to Roman for a few moments, then looked back at Cole. “Yes.”
“Will he tell me?”
She spoke to Roman again, sitting back on her heels to get face-to-face with him. The old man looked up at Cole and nodded.
So here it came, the truth at last, handed over like a gift. Cole all but stopped breathing.
“First he wants you to understand the country was in upheaval at the time. There were border disputes, skirmishes and deaths.”
“John told me the police chief at the time committed suicide,” Cole said. “He was caught in a scandal of some sort.”
“That’s what the public was told. The truth was the man was murdered to make room for another man.”
“Smirnoff.”
“Yes.”
“Then who really did kill the police chief?”
“Someone committed to owning the police. Someone in the same secret club as Smirnoff.”
Cole furrowed his brow. “A secret club?”
“There are old rumors,” she said. “I remember my mother talking about them. You’ve seen the owl ring?”
“Yes.” Cole looked out the window at the falling snow and suddenly knew he had to hurry this up before his car got snowed in. He had to see Skylar. He stopped interrupting and sat very still as Irina translated the old man’s story.
When he’d heard it all, he got to his feet. He shook the old guy’s hand, and Irina walked him to the door. “Can you find your way back by yourself?”
“Yes. You’re staying?”
“For a little while. I don’t think Roman has been eating much. I’m going to make him something and share it with him. It’s hard to eat alone when you’re used to sharing meals.”
He impulsively leaned over and kissed her forehead. “You’re a good woman, Irina.
“Just watch your back.”
Cole nodded. It was good advice.
Chapter Eleven
Skylar found a gift shop in a round stone room that looked as though it had once been the dungeon. She only had the lightweight raincoat she’d fled in the night before, and even with her heavy sweater underneath, she was freezing. The castle may have been updated and restored, but it was still a drafty place with cool spots despite the roaring fires and long walkways between buildings.
It had been a long time since she’d actually bought anything retail. Usually she just window-shopped to find inspiration, but this time she went straight to a rack filled with coats, settling at last on an all-weather parka, light blue in color with a white faux-fur fluff around the hood. She hadn’t had anything like it in years, not since high school when she’d taken up skiing until she discovered the only sure way to stop—for her—was to fall down.
She bought it on a credit card and folded her own raincoat into the bag the store provided. Nice and cozy now, she walked along the snowy path to the museum, pausing at the pier to look out over the frozen lake toward Slovo, her hair protected from the falling snow.
The pier was built high above the lake with a fifteen-foot drop to the shore and a series of stairs leading down to a dock that would sport a lineup of sail and power boats come summer. The lake wasn’t frozen over yet, but it looked as if it was trying, especially close to the shoreline. The shore itself was blanketed with white and with the snow still falling and the temperature plunging, Skylar imagined it would only get more beautiful as the season progressed.
Cole was over there somewhere meeting with a potential supplier. She wished she’d been able to go with him. What a mess she was—how scattered were her thoughts? One minute she was telling him to leave her alone and the next, she was asking him for help. He must think she was nuts.
And yet there’d been moments today when their gazes locked that threw her back to his room, her in his arms, his mouth all over her, warm and moist. All the passion still hung there between them like a gossamer curtain just waiting to be torn down. He’d pulled back that night, and she was ready to talk about it now. He would be leaving Kanistan pretty soon, and who knows how autocratic her uncle would get about her seeing him once she returned to her aunt’s side. If Cole left without them coming to some understanding, she might never have the opportunity to know him better, to discover if her feelings were genuine or not, and that struck her as profoundly sad.
That reminded her that she’d asked him to call
her when he was ready to meet up again, but she’d turned her phone to silent so she wouldn’t have to deal with her uncle. She looked at it now and saw that she’d missed three calls from his private number. Those were three calls she didn’t mind missing, yet what if they were about her aunt? What if she’d taken a turn for the worse? How selfish could Skylar possibly bear to be?
She called her aunt, who picked up immediately. “Skylar,” Aunt Eleanor said. “I’m so glad to hear your voice.”
Hers sounded hollow, and Skylar cringed inside at adding to her worries. “I’m sorry if I upset you by leaving for a little while. I’ll be back very soon.”
A feeble cough was followed by a deep breath. “Not upset,” her aunt said. “It’s just been a rough day of treatments. Don’t worry about me.”
“I guess it was pretty juvenile of me to run off in the dead of the night,” Skylar said.
“By the time I knew you were gone, I had your note. I told Luca to get a grip. He treats you like you’re twelve.”
“He looks out for me kind of like he looks out for you,” Skylar said.
“I know. I think he’s been calling to apologize and tell you it’s safe to come home. He won’t lock you in your room.”
It was nice that her aunt could make light of it, but right at that moment, after the events of the past twenty-four hours, Skylar found her uncle’s controlling nature difficult to bear. But she wasn’t going to say that to her aunt.
“Where are you, sweetheart?” Aunt Eleanor asked.
“I don’t think I’m going to tell you,” Skylar said.
“Are you with Cole Bennett?”
“I’m not going to tell you that, either. Then Uncle Luca can’t hum his lullaby and get you to tell him all your secrets.”
She managed a laugh.
“Again, Aunt Eleanor, I’m sorry if I caused you a second of alarm. And don’t worry. I’ll be back by the time the gallery reopens in a couple of days.”
Her aunt was quiet for a moment, and when she spoke, it was with a melancholy note in her voice. “Please be kind to your uncle, Skylar. He’s under a lot of pressure lately. I know he’s worried about so many things.”
“I’ll try. And I want to assure you I haven’t forgotten your request. I’m still trying to get information about Aneta.”
“I shouldn’t have asked that of you,” her aunt said. “Your uncle and I have always been upfront with each other, and this feels like sneaking around. Poor Aneta was murdered. Snooping could put you in danger, too. Let it go, okay? Leave it to the police.”
“Sure, no problem,” Skylar said, determined to erase the increased sound of worry from her aunt’s voice. They hung up a few minutes later.
So what was gnawing at Skylar’s stomach now? Had thinking about Aneta awakened Skylar’s memory that Ian Banderas knew Svetlana had tried to kill him? The woman had given Skylar her phone number, and Skylar called it now. Svetlana’s voice message answered, and that took the breath right out of Skylar’s lungs. She would have bet anything that Svetlana ate, slept and worked with that phone close at hand, worried she might miss a call from her daughter.
Skylar pocketed the phone, and thoroughly chilled now, she hurried along the walkway to the museum. The half-dozen rooms were filled with memorabilia concerning the family that had built the castle and included a small display of clothes collected from the region. Skylar found it warm enough inside to take off her coat. She also found a quiet corner with a bench, took out her sketch pad and started recording the ideas that popped into her head as she gazed at the heavy damask fabrics, beads and pearls and rich colors.
After two hours of this, she flipped through the pages and realized every sketch she’d created was dark and somber, not her usual style at all. She knew it was because her thoughts kept snaking their way back to Svetlana not answering her phone, and she tried calling again. Still no response.
She sat there with her hands in her lap, her thoughts suddenly skipping back to the visit at Aneta’s house and the oppressive feeling she’d experienced as the family dynamics played out.
Yelena mourned one daughter and seemingly didn’t care about the other’s largely unexplained disappearance. She was afraid of her husband but passive. Inna worried about that granddaughter, but her concerns were ignored. Burian apparently terrorized them all. And hovering over everything was the murder of Aneta, who had turned to theft reportedly to save her sister. Save her from what?
A dysfunctional family to be sure.
And poor. The furniture and carpet had been worn, old and cheaply made, just like at Svetlana Dacho’s place. So both missing girls had come from near poverty. How many more missing teenagers were there that Skylar didn’t know about? What was Ian doing with them? Why didn’t her uncle know about them?
The woman in charge of the museum came around the corner of a display case and informed Skylar that the museum was closing for the night. Skylar had lost track of time. She hurriedly put her things back in her bag, zipped up her parka and left the museum to discover night had fallen.
The path was abandoned but adequately lit, and the covered portions gave respite from the snow. Skylar began to consider the joys of sitting in front of a blazing fire and sipping something hot, then maybe ordering dinner. Something rich and fattening like cheesy pasta. All of this would be a hundred percent more enjoyable, of course, with Cole sitting across the table, sipping wine with her. It was getting so late she wondered if he might not suggest taking a room for the night. What would be her response?
Who was she trying to kid? She’d jump on it. She’d jump on him.
What was taking him so long?
Near the pier again, she paused to dig her phone from her pocket to make sure she hadn’t missed a call from him or Svetlana. Nothing.
For a moment, she rested her arms on the railing, and like before, she peered toward the hazy lights of the city across the lake. Would she ever come to the Slovo lake area again? Worst case scenario: her aunt didn’t make it. Would Skylar continue to come see her uncle? Of course, but not for two weeks at a time. As far back as she could remember, Uncle Luca had worked long hours and seldom been home; without Aunt Eleanor, there would be no reason to stay for extended visits.
But even if, hopefully, Aunt Eleanor did survive, Skylar wasn’t a kid anymore, and while helping her aunt was soul satisfying, living under such scrutiny at her house was difficult at best. And there was the matter of time and money, too. Sooner or later, Skylar’s fashion career had to take off, didn’t it?
Maybe she should try to get on one of those television reality shows and see what happened. A friend of hers from school had done it and enjoyed modest success.
Her uncle would accuse her of daydreaming and in the snow, to boot! She pocketed the phone again, and as she did, she heard the sound of crunching snow and approaching steps.
Expecting to see Cole, she turned quickly, careful of her footing on the snowy pier. The footsteps came closer until a figure appeared out of the dark, but it wasn’t Cole. Skylar wasn’t sure how she knew that until she realized there was no limp and the shape was wrong.
And that’s when Skylar realized she had done exactly what Cole warned her about doing—gone off alone.
Whoever it was wore a ski mask pulled down over their head and kept coming faster than seemed normal. Confused, Skylar hesitated doing what she wanted to do, which was run back to the museum. The person was close now, carrying something brown and bulky. “Help me,” they said, and Skylar stepped forward to see what was wrong. Was there a baby in that blanket?
A swift kick to her knee came out of nowhere. Skylar instantly fell to the pier, but when she looked up at her assailant, all she found was a blanket coming toward her. She raised her hands to push it away, but there was force directing the big cloth, and within seconds, she was trapped.
She fought with the blanket as hands held her down, pushing her all the way to the pier until her face was laying against the icy wood. She fought for a
handhold and attempted to stand, but the surface was slippery. Hands gripped her shoulders and she gasped, instinctively rolling away from her attacker. Blows followed, the person delivering them grunting with the effort. Impulsively, Skylar retreated the only way she could, rolling toward the railing, hoping it was high enough to stop a fall and yet knowing if it was, she’d be trapped.
None of this made any sense.
“Mind your own business,” a voice said. It was impossible to separate the hissed words from the repeated blows.
Skylar floundered in the blanket, and then all of a sudden, she plummeted off the edge of the pier and toward the lake. The blanket finally floated from her body. Time stood still for the instant before the jarring crush of the final impact.
* * *
HOW IN THE WORLD was he going to tell Skylar the truth? Where did he begin? With his own lies and the way he’d used her to arrive at this point? That ought to be a great conversation. He dreaded seeing her again, yet he drove as fast as he dared, burning with the need to share this information despite the devastation that would certainly follow in its wake.
But patience was called for, too. He’d have to find the right place. This whole thing was going to take a while to get through. There were layers to the story. And he knew it was going to frighten and alarm her—break her heart, even. But how could he not be honest with her when if he had his way, the world would soon know the truth about Luca Futura?
This time he used valet parking and entered the hotel lobby, half expecting to find Skylar sitting on one of the velvet-covered sofas that dotted the place. She wasn’t there. He checked himself in at the desk because there was no way he could talk to Skylar about this in a public place or in a car where he couldn’t look at her and gauge her reactions. This would take privacy, and that meant a room.
Once that was done, he pocketed the key and checked the bar and dining room to make sure she wasn’t close by, and then he went to the concierge where he found an English-speaking employee who allowed him access to their phone.
He was startled when she didn’t respond. Did she get wind of his real reason for coming? No, that was damn near impossible. Had her uncle’s lackey caught up with her and taken her back to Traterg? Now that was more likely. But even if that’s what had happened, she’d still have her phone—unless it had been taken from her.
