Page 100 of Lethal Legacy

“Then Uncle Roman came and made Mama stop backing the car out. He took us all inside and that’s when he...” Her voice chokes.

“That’s when he told you what had happened to your Papa?”

She nods, unable to speak.

“That must have been terrible.” I keep rubbing her back. “Is that what you dream about? Roman telling you about Papa?”

“No.” She shakes her head wearily. “I always dream the same thing. Always. I dream that somebody is taking Mickey and Masha away, and I don’t know where they’re going. And in my dream I can’t—yell. I can’t tell them to stop.” She’s weeping openly now, her body shaking with sobs. “I c-can’t do anything to fight back. And they’re crying, and they don’t want to go, but I c-can’t h-help them...”

“Oh, darling.” I lie down on the bed behind her and cuddle her close, stroking her hair and murmuring soothing nothings until she gradually quiets again and the sobs become soft hitches of breath. We lie like that for a long time, until finally her breathing slows and I feel her start to relax.

“Lucia?” she says sleepily.

“Hm?”

“I’m glad you’re here.”

I kiss the back of her head, squeezing my eyes shut to stop the sudden tears from sliding out. When I trust myself to speak, I say, “Me, too, darling. I’m glad I’m here, too.”

“Thank you for . . . procession . . .” She’s drifting.

“I can’t wait to see it.” I keep whispering to her as she slides back into sleep, stroking her hair long after I hear the long, rhythmic breathing.

I lie in the darkness beside her for a time, digesting what she said. I’m unwilling to leave in case the nightmare reclaims her.

I’d already deduced that Inger, the children’s mother, is quite a piece of work. But I still don’t understand how any mother could turn up after the death of their children’s father and not only keep the fact from them, but then try to split them up.

Not to mention Babushka fucking Vera, terrifying all three of them by screaming and then losing herself completely.

I try to remind myself that the woman had just discovered her son was dead; I want to feel sympathy for that. But my efforts to empathize with her are far outweighed by my horror at her abandoning three young children at the most terrible moment of their lives, to selfishly indulge her own grief.

In the few days I’ve spent with the children, it’s become horribly apparent that they’re entirely dependent on one another for emotional support. Their father, who appears to have been the most attentive of the various adult figures in their life, has been gone for two years. Since then, from what I can deduce from the files and sparse notes, they’ve been largely raised by a series of nannies, with the occasional visit to Inger’s parents in the US or to Vera in London. Roman has been their prime carer during that time, but from what I can see, he’s been distant at best, and despite his recent efforts, just plain absent at worst.

I will contact you in due course regarding the issues you raised. Meanwhile, rest assured that your privacy will be entirely respected and your safety guaranteed.

I’ve read his text message so many times I have it memorized.

I wonder if it’s wise to let Ofelia believe I’ll be here for any length of time. Given his fury in the penthouse, and the curt tone of his message, Roman seems just as likely to send me packing as he ever was.

I did as his message asked, of course. I gave the children the good news that they are permitted to take part in the procession. I cooked fajitas with them, took them out for gelato on the seafront, then tucked them in and waited until they were all asleep before returning to my own apartment. By the time Ofelia cried out with her nightmare, I’d been lying awake in the darkness for hours, turning over everything that was said between Roman and me.

I didn’t come to any conclusions, of course.

What conclusions are there to come to? Roman will make a decision, sooner or later. When he does, he’ll tell me. And then whatever way the chips fall, I’ll have to work with it. In the meantime, I’m grateful that at least it seems he won’t betray me to the Orlovs.

I touch Ofelia’s phone on the nightstand and it lights up: just after one o’clock in the morning.

The witching hour is close.

That thought brings me back to Roman calling melittle vedma,little witch. I wish I could say I hated the name, but I don’t, any more than when he slips and calls memilaia,“darling.”

It’s unlikely that I’ll hear anything like that again anytime soon.

The uncertainty makes me restless and impatient. It’s an unfortunate side effect of having been the sole person deciding my and Papa’s future for the past six years. I’m always considering the next step, always making a plan. I find it deeply discomforting not to know what, exactly, Roman plans to do with me. Despite his assurances about my safety, our conversation has left me in limbo regarding how he feels, both about me and my past.

I check Ofelia’s breathing. It’s deep and even. I slowly withdraw my arm and ease myself off her bed. I leave the lights on low in case she wakes up again and pad restlessly out into the living room. I’m wide awake, sleep a distant dream. I walk over to the wide window that looks down onto the street below, staring out at the city lights. The streets are quiet, only a rare vehicle traversing them. I watch as a motorbike roars down the road at high speed. To my surprise, it pulls into the driveway leading into the basement parking garage. The rider halts and puts his feet to the ground, stabilizing the bike as he points the clicker to raise the security door.

It’s Roman.

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