Page 49 of Dirty Grovel

“You’re not making me do anything. I’m offering!”

“Still—”

“I will stick to you like white on rice, singingGod Save the Queenin the worst British accent you’ve ever heard, until you buckle and let me help.”

“Jesus,” Jesse caves with a horrified shudder. “Fine. You can help. I’m tackling the west wing today.”

“Ooh, I thought that was off-limits?”

“Huh?” Jesse twists around.

I smile. “Sorry… that was aBeauty & the Beastreference. It’s because— You know what, never mind. Let me not embarrass myself any further.”

“Have it your way, crazy,” she says with a weary exhale. She gestures for me to follow her to the staircase. We make our way up to the third floor of the mansion and then turn down a corridor I’ve never explored before.

“I thought these rooms were empty…?”

“They are, for the most part,” Jesse explains. “Except for the picture room.”

“The what?”

She stops outside a blue door with a bronze handle and pushes it open. “See for yourself.”

I walk in—and my jaw drops.

It’s exactly as Jesse described: a picture room. There’s nothing in it, except for dark wooden floorboards, a gorgeous Persian carpet, and bow windows that let in an endless supply of Caribbean sunlight.

But it’s not about what’s in the room.

It’s about what’s on the walls.

Every single surface is covered in framed pictures. Some big, some small. Some staged, others candid.

It’s the art gallery of someone who wants more, more,more.

“Whoa,” I exclaim. “This is…”

“I know.” Jesse nods, giving me a knowing smile. “It’s something, isn’t it?”

“So this is why there are no framed photographs around the house. They’re all hiding out in here.” I shake my head. “This is kinda…”

“Crazy? Weird? Eccentric?”

I hold up my hands in self-defense. “Your words, not mine.”

She grins and gives me a teasing elbow. “This was Oksana’s project,” she says. “She started it about ten years ago. We got to capacity about five years ago, but that didn’t stop her from adding even more.”

“But why? What’s the point of all this?”

Jesse pulls out a hidden ladder and sets it carefully against the wall. “At first, it was about getting it all out of sight. For the longest time, she didn’t want to see any of these pictures. I remember watching my parents take down all the pictures in the house after… after the accident.”

I do a double-take. “Wait—your parents?”

“Did I not mention that? Cleaning up after the Pavlovs is a family business. My mama and papa were the original caretakers of this estate.” She looks to the window, but her eyes are hazy, like she’s remembering something else entirely. “This was my playground growing up.”

“So that means you knew Oleg when he was young.”

Jesse nods. “And his sister, Oriana. I’d like to think we were friends. But that’s probably overstating things.”

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