Broken Compass

by Jo Raven

  Selfish, I know. Especially since it’s not me she wants, it’s Nate and West. West who stayed behind to take care of his grandfather and sister. Weirdly it hurts that he stayed behind. Not because he abandoned us, but because I can’t look after him when he lives apart. I can’t protect him.

  What’s wrong with me, right? They’re falling for each other. It’s a love triangle, and will probably end in fucking tears and heartbreak, and I’m not even part of it. Which should be great but hurts instead. It hurts that I’m left outside their little circle of desire and affection.

  Everything hurts. Every single fucking thing, and yet I’m still here.

  Because for the first time in years, I feel something, and I can’t let go.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Nate

  Predictably the police pretty much dismiss our appeal. As we sit there, at the station, I know they won’t believe us. They ask if the dealer would come in and make a statement, but I doubt The Eel will let himself be found again, even less let himself be dragged to the station for questioning.

  Maybe he’s self-conscious about his stupid nickname? I know I would be.

  As for his testimony, I understand the police’s disbelief. I also have trouble deciding whether I believe him or not. I don’t see why he’d make that up, sure. But it’s entirely possible he hallucinated or misinterpreted what he saw.

  Yeah, and what could he have seen that looked like two guys bagged Kash, threw him into a car and drove away?

  That’s the thing with drugs, though. They alter the chemicals in your brain. Change your perception. The dickhead may believe what he told us really happened, but that doesn’t necessarily mean it’s true.

  We also tell the police about how apparently Kash is really Kasimir Vasiliev, but the policewoman isn’t impressed by our deduction skills.

  “Do you have proof of that?” she asks. “Wait, let me repeat what you told me: the guy who tattooed your friend’s arms years ago remembers him and said he is the son of Andrei Vasiliev, the owner of Casino Blue?”

  “No, the son of Mikhail Vasiliev. Andrei is his uncle.”

  “Right. So this rich guy wants to harm his nephew and… kidnapped him?”

  She makes it sound ridiculous. She clearly doesn’t believe a word we’re saying and can’t wait to get rid of us.

  “Maybe. We don’t know who took him.”

  “What would he kidnap him for?”

  “Money? Kash—Kasimir—is nineteen now, and he’s about to inherit his parent’s assets.”

  “But Andrei is a rich man. Would he kidnap his nephew and get into trouble with the law over more money? This makes no sense, guys, I’m sorry.”

  “People do crazy things for money,” Sydney says. “Even when they’re rich.”

  But the police aren’t convinced of our claims, and I don’t fucking blame them. We sound like a bunch of lunatics. There’s no evidence that Kash was kidnapped, or that he is Andrei’s nephew, and he’s an adult, therefore free to walk away if he wants.

  The police are sorry, but they have real urgent cases to solve, and missing adults turn up in most cases on their own, having left of their own volition. Besides, did Andrei file a missing person report for his nephew? No? Strange. If Kash is Kasimir, then Andrei is his only living relative, right? So why would he pretend that his nephew is safe and sound, back home with him, if he isn’t?

  “Because,” Sydney says, “Andrei killed Kash’s family, and Kash knows it. It’s not money Andrei is after. He wants to silence Kash.”

  Goddammit. Why didn’t she tell me this?

  “This is a serious accusation,” the policewoman says with a frown. “Any evidence for this one?”

  “We have Kash’s journal. It says everything. Only he doesn’t use full names. Only initials.”

  “Initials.” She sighs wearily. “Look, I’m sorry. We can’t accuse the man of murder just like that. Especially a man as influential as Vasiliev. He’s never been in trouble with the law, and you have nothing significant enough to warrant an investigation.”

  “Come, Syd, let’s get outta here.” I take her hand and tug her away from the desk.

  Fuck, I wish West was here. He’s at work, and I thought we could handle this on our own, but West is the calm and collected one, the rational one. He would have had arguments and answers when I only have anger and a bad attitude.

  “Why didn’t you tell me what you read in the journal?” I sink on the sofa and turn the TV on out of habit, mute it and lean back on the cushions. “I felt like an idiot, finding things out at the same time as the police.”

  She’s still standing by the door, and her face colors, golden lashes hiding her eyes. “I was going to. We rushed to the station, and I had no time—”

  “Bullshit. Be straight with me.”

  A small flinch. I hate myself for it, but I need her to tell me the truth. “Okay,” she whispers. “The truth is I didn’t think you’d believe me.”

  “But you believe it?”

  She nods.

  “What else was in the journal? What did he say about his uncle?”

  She wipes at her nose. “Lots of things. You should read it, Nate.”

  “Yeah, maybe I should.” I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Though I’m not sure how it could help.”

  Sydney comes to sit down beside me. “But at least you’re trying. This is about a man’s life. About a killer evading justice, too. Why won’t they look into it more?”

  “We don’t have evidence, Syd. We constructed a case out of hearsay.”

  The police have dismissed all we have as random, but it feels like a lot to dismiss out of hand. Then again… conspiracy theories are like that. They sound plausible. All the bits seem to fit because you choose to only see the bits that fit and discard the rest.

  “It’s not hearsay. Kash wrote these things in his journal.”

  I lift my hand and toy with a loose copper strand that’s curled against her neck. “What if the people Kash wrote about aren’t the Vasilievs? What if what he wrote isn’t even real, but a record of dreams? Or… I dunno. Fiction.”

  “You think Kash wrote a novel in the form of a journal? Seriously?”

  I shrug. “Okay, maybe not. I have no fucking clue, all right? But consider this: what if the police are right after all and Kash walked away?”

  “No.”

  I tug on the fiery strand, then trail the back of my hand over her satiny cheek. Her eyes are glittery with unshed tears. She’s so fierce, my girl. So determined. So loyal and unwavering. Her mom abandoning her hasn’t changed the diamond core of her, and it shines through her gaze, her words, her decisions.

  It makes me feel jaded and cynical. It makes me feel I need to be stronger for her, that I need to steel my resolve and learn from her how to trust. Learn how to love with everything in me.

  “I’ll read his journal,” I say. “Show me what you found.”

  “Let me bring it.” Flashing me a quick smile, she hurries to the bedroom and comes back with the black leather-bound notebook.

  Maybe I missed something, I think as I take it. Something that could convince the police to open the case. It would have to be fucking compelling evidence to pit the police against the Vasilievs, but I’m curious, and I mean, shit, if there’s a chance, any chance at all to get Kash back…

  I can’t believe I still think that’s even possible.

  But if there’s one thing I learned about this little family around me is that we don’t give up. No way. Not until we’ve used up our last drop of hope.

  “He wrote that he was still a kid when his mom and sister were shot dead,” Syd says, pulling the journal to her lap, flipping a few pages and pointing. “Here. It says ‘Uncle A.’ was there. Kash had realized something was off but didn’t know what.”

  “Syd, that’s not exactly clear, and it doesn’t implicate the uncle.”

  “His dad talked to him years later,” she says. “Here, look. He told Kash that Uncle A. ha
d been behind the killing, and to be careful, because the uncle wanted control of the casinos left to Kash’s dad by his grandma. The uncle was greedy, I guess. And jealous of Kash’s dad for having made a name for himself as a fighter, where Uncle A. couldn’t cut it.”

  Damn. “Still no proof.”

  “Kash’s dad gave him something. It’s not clear. The word is… Russian? Maybe.”

  I drag the journal back to me. “Lemme see.”

  “Because your Russian is so much better than mine?”

  I snort. “Hey, the letters aren’t so different. It looks like it could read… comnac? Cognac?”

  “Look, we can’t just guess. Let me try Google Translate.” She types the word in her phone and lets out a breath. “Compass. That’s what it says.”

  I frown at the word. Compass. “What the hell. His dad gave him a compass? And?”

  The apartment door opens and we turn toward it as it swings open and West steps inside. He hangs his keyring on the hook because that’s West, neat and tidy, and comes to join us in the living room.

  Only he staggers a little and I’m on my feet at the same sec.

  “West. The fuck?” He doesn’t look good, pale and sweaty. I catch him as he staggers again and guide him to the sofa and a wide-eyed Sydney. “Man, are you sick? Shit.”

  “I’m okay,” he mumbles.

  “You’re okay, my ass.”

  “You sick, West?” Sydney strokes his forehead. “You don’t feel hot.”

  He catches her hand, lowers it. “Said I’m okay. What are you guys doing?”

  “Discussing what’s in Kash’s journal,” Syd mutters. “You’re deflecting.”

  “I don’t wanna fucking talk about myself,” West says with such a sharp edge to his voice it stops me cold, when all I want is push him to tell us what is wrong. “Tell me what you found.”

  Fucking hell, something spooked him real good. West doesn’t rattle easily. The only people with the power to get him in a fit were his granddad and his sister, but with them gone…

  What isn’t he telling us?

  “Here,” Sydney says, glancing at me, a worried glint in her eyes, then back at the journal, “Kash wrote that his dad told him his uncle was behind the killing of his mom and sister, and left him a compass. Or so we think. The word is in Russian.”

  “Show me.”

  She passes him the journal and he stares at the text, his face still white, his mouth pale. I’d bet my balls he isn’t even seeing the words in front of him.

  I pull the journal over and lay it open on my knee. “And where is the compass? Never saw anything like that on Kash or in his room. We searched from side to side. We’d have seen a goddamn compass lying around, right?”

  “And what use would it be to us anyway?” West mutters, a flicker of interest entering his expression.

  “No fucking clue.”

  “Wait.” Syd drapes herself over West’s legs and grabs the journal. “My dad gave me a compass on a paper.”

  I scowl down at the text. “So?”

  “What if…” She scoots back to her place, taking the journal with her. “What if it’s not a real compass, but one on paper?”

  “As if, drawn on paper?” West says and hell.

  “You serious?” I put my arm around West and lean over, trying to see the journal. “Give it back here.”

  She squeaks as we play tug war—until West’s hand falls heavily on top of the journal.

  “Stop. You’re gonna tear it.” We both let go and lean in as he opens it again on his lap. “A compass on paper. Maybe it’s inside this journal?”

  That makes sense. “Drawn on a separate piece of paper.”

  “That his dad gave him.”

  “But why the hell does this matter?” I grumble.

  Undeterred, Sydney turns the pages. That girl never gives up, I swear.

  Fuck, I love her.

  Sydney is still turning pages, muttering something about cryptic men, and West is observing her with a fond smile on his face, some color returning to his cheeks, and all I can think of is that I fucking love them both, and Kash… if that motherfucker hadn’t vanished into thin air, I’d love him, too.

  Jesus, I’m so fucked. What do I do if they ever leave me? I’d just… dissolve into nothing. How do you deal with the feeling you can’t function as a single entity anymore, that you’re part of a whole, and you need that whole to live?

  I need Sydney’s laughter, West’s faint smiles, Kash’s quiet strength. And Kash’s panic attacks, West’s OCD, Sydney’s tears because it’s their other side, the side that makes them real.

  That makes them a match for me.

  Dunno what I’d do without them.

  Don’t wanna find out.

  I know relationships often fall apart over grief and sorrow. Happened to classmates. Hell, my dad went off the rails when mom died. I remember when it happened, all those years ago, and how he changed. I remember when he stopped being my dad.

  When he started seeing Jane, started fighting with her, when she turned to drugs and became the ghost of the woman she’d been.

  When I started hiding in the bedroom with her some nights when dad’s buddies came over, knowing he wouldn’t let them into the room with her. Fights or not, he wouldn’t let them touch her, unlike me.

  Relationships fall apart because the people in them change, bowed and distorted out of shape by pain, so that they don’t fit together anymore.

  And I know Kash is gone, but I can’t lose this, too, this new family I’ve found. I’ll fold over my broken edges, try not to hurt Syd and West, and hope they’ll still keep me.

  I don’t wanna ever let go.

  It’s Sydney who finds the piece of paper tucked inside the leather cover at the back of the journal. The paper is yellow with age, and on it is the crude drawing of a compass.

  Which doesn’t point north.

  There’s also a phrase in Russian written below, and we sort of translate it with Google Translate. Apparently it says something in the lines of, “The difference you make is the key to everything.”

  A Russian saying? A random wisdom bit? A line from a book?

  “If his dad wrote it there, it has to be important,” Syd says.

  “Like the compass is? We don’t even know that the compass means anything.”

  “Nate! How about some positive thinking, huh?”

  Okay. Not my forte, but I can try. I study the goddamn compass, wondering what I’m missing. It only has the letters for the cardinal points, and that phrase below.

  I give up. “Fucking thing isn’t even pointing north.”

  “Yeah,” West says. “It’s a broken compass.”

  Broken like us.

  “It’s pointing to the south-west.” Syd taps a slim finger on the hand of the compass. “Why? Kash comes from the north. How is this connected?”

  “Maybe it isn’t. Remember, his dad told him his uncle had his family killed and gave him this compass. A direction wouldn’t be useful.”

  “Okay, then. What?”

  “Wait, I have a compass app.” West pulls out his phone, taps something on the screen. “It’s a deviation of 129.39°.”

  “Wait,” Sydney frowns, “wasn’t there a difference between true north and magnetic north? At school—”

  “I doubt this is what the drawing is about,” West says. “It’s so simple, basic. Just giving us…”

  “A number. The degrees of the deviation.” I stare at the compass. “But a number of what?”

  West’s face is now flushed, his eyes bright and alive. “What sort of numbers are important?”

  “Passwords?”

  “To a computer?”

  “Or a safe,” West says. “A safety deposit box?”

  “In a bank?”

  We fall silent.

  So I ask the obvious question. “How would we know which bank? There’s no hint of it in the text.” I read over the words. “We’re at a disadvantage, not speaking Russian, n
ot knowing the words, but I’ve never heard of a bank with a name containing any of these words.”

  “What about a club?” Sydney asks. “A Russian club. In Chicago.”

  “Sure…” I narrow my eyes at her. She’s thought of something. My girl is brilliant. “Any name in mind?”

  “How about Broken Compass?”

  I find the club easily. сломанный компас. Slomannyy kompas. Private exclusive high-class club and casino.

  We’ve hit pay dirt—assuming we got the rest of the story right.

  “So we are assuming,” I push my laptop away and rub my burning eyes, “that the number is the key to a safety deposit box in this club where Kash’s dad left evidence of the murderer. Piece of cake.”

  West groans, throwing himself back on the sofa. “Why wouldn’t Kash have tried to get that evidence in all these years?”

  “If he had a stalker, someone always following him, last thing he’d want would be to lead him to the evidence.”

  “But he could have gone to the police.”

  “Yeah? Listen to this.” Sydney picks up the journal, turns close to the beginning to a page marked with a bookmark, and reads: “The police told me that the deaths of my family were not linked to Uncle A. and that is that. I didn’t have evidence, and even if I found what my dad left for me, I’m tired of fighting and running and hiding. If I stay silent and let him be, maybe he’ll let me be, too. Let me live.”

  “Or maybe not. Shit.” His words… they catch at that feeling in my chest, twisting me up.

  All Kash wanted was to live.

  With us.

  I wanna smash the whole apartment up. It’s just not fucking fair. Why couldn’t they leave him alone?

  And suddenly I believe with a soul-deep conviction that he didn’t walk away, that he was taken. Syd believed it all along, and reading that passage from his journal hit me straight in the gut. This isn’t a guy who’s looking to bolt when he turns nineteen and go claim his inheritance, who wants to run.