Page 99 of Lethal Legacy

“Lucia,” she whispers.

“It’s okay, sweetheart.” I sit down on the side of her bed and pass her the glass of water on her nightstand. “You were having a dream, that’s all. Just a dream.” I smooth the blonde strands away from her face.

“Masha?” she says anxiously, her eyes darting around the room.

“Asleep. Mickey, too. They’re both fine. Don’t worry, you didn’t wake them.” Gradually her breathing calms, the frantic beating of her heart steadying. I gently rub the base of her spine, keeping my eyes down while she gains control of herself.

“I’m sorry I woke you,” she says in a small voice.

“You didn’t.” That’s honest, at least. “I couldn’t sleep. I was sitting out in the living room and heard you.”

“You were?” She frowns. “Dressed like that?” I realize, with a jolt of embarrassment, that I’m clad in nothing but a tiny silk cami and French panty set. No wonder the guard’s eyes nearly popped out. My boobs aren’t made for a no-bra situation.

He’s lucky I was dressed at all. I’ve never liked sleeping with clothes on.

“I left my robe on the sofa,” I lie.

“Oh.” Her eyes go slightly unfocused, and she chews her lower lip.

“Ofelia,” I say gently. “Do you want to tell me about your dream?”

Her eyes dart to me and away again. “It was the night Papa died.”

“Ah.” I know their father died in a car bomb, but little more than that. “Were you there that night? Is that what you were dreaming about?”

“No.” Her head shakes on the pillow. “We were at home. At our old home. The one we had before... everything.”

“Here in Spain?”

“Uh-huh.” She nods slightly. “We were with Babushka Vera.”

Yuri’s wife.I don’t have an overly good impression of Babushka Vera so far. From the muttered side comments I’ve heard when her name is mentioned, she holds extremely conservative, traditional views and is very critical of all three children.

“Was it Babushka Vera who told you about your papa?”

“No.” She frowns. “The phone rang, and she answered it. After a moment she screamed, and then she went into her bedroom and locked the door. We could hear her crying”—her voice cracks slightly—“but she wouldn’t let us in.”

I refrain, with no small difficulty, from the urge to say something extremely sharp about Babushka fucking Vera.

“What happened after that?” I ask gently. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

Ofelia knuckles her eyes like a child.

“It’s okay.” She stares at the floor for a few moments. I keep rubbing her back in slow circles. “After a while, Mama came,” she says finally. “She tried to take Masha.”

My hand falters for a moment, then continues.

“Masha was crying.”

From the corner of my eye, I can see slow tears trickling down Ofelia’s face.

“Mickey was yelling at Mama to stop, and Masha was trying to hang on to me, but Mama took her anyway and put her in the car. She had a convertible,” Ofelia adds, her eyes cutting to me. “Papa wouldn’t let us ride in it. There wasn’t a proper baby seat, and he says—said—that Mama drove too fast. I was trying to tell her, and Mickey was trying to get Masha out of the car, but...” Her voice trails off dismally.

I can see the scene all too clearly. It’s hard enough for me to imagine, let alone for Ofelia to relive.

“Mama told me to stay and look after Babushka Vera, but I didn’t want to. I wanted to go with Masha.”

“Of course you did.”

---