Page 42 of Unspoken

"Thanks. For showing this to me." His gratitude hits like a sucker punch, because he sounds sincere, and I'm not sure I deserve it. I’m not teaching him how to bake. I’m teaching him how to fire a weapon. And where weapons are involved, death always follows.

"Part of the job," I say, gruffer than I intend. But then he smiles, small and tentative, and damn if it doesn't warm the cold corners of my soul just a little. And that cursed beauty mark on his left cheek only makes him look cuter than he already is.

Fuck. What is wrong with me?

"Let's keep going," I say, turning away to hide the conflict warring in me—the guilt that gnaws at my insides like a caged animal, knowing that Ma's fighting a battle she can't win, while I'm here playing teacher to a man who should be just another job.

But Sasha Solovey isn't just another job. And that's the sort of trouble I can't afford. Because Vlad will kill me.

Weeks bleed into one another, marked by the rhythm of bullets shot by Sasha in Ramon’s range and the hollow space where my mother's voice used to be.

When I ask Vlad for time off, he simply nods. "I hear your mother is not well," he says, and I wonder if he sees the fissures spreading through me because Sasha mentioned something to him or if he had someone follow me, investigate my life.

"Yes," I tell him. "Been a long battle for her."

"We have no control over who stays and who goes, Logan," Vlad says. "Please accept my condolences and take all the time you need. I’ll have Ivan watch over Alexander until you come back."

Cecilia slips away on a Tuesday, as dawn creeps across the sky, painting it in hues of gold and sorrow. She’s serene, as if she simply decided to step off the carousel of life, leaving behind the laughter and the tears.

I cry. Alone in the silence of her room, surrounded by the memories of our shared past. I allow the grief to wash over me, a flood seeking to cleanse yet only serving to drown.

The next couple of days are a blur. Stan, ever the rock, is at my side, making arrangements with Magda’s help and some of Ma’s family. My father’s relatives arrive too. There are people in her apartment, talking in hushed voices and throwing glances at me. I nod when someone offers their condolences, but eventually, I’m tired of hearing it. Because every time it happens, it’s a reminder she’s gone.

The day of the funeral is hot, Vegas-in-summer-hot. And the sun beats down mercilessly on our group as we gather aroundthe open grave. Occasionally, a breeze ruffles the edges of the funeral tent. It’s the only respite from the suffocating heat.

Still, I have to do this. I have to do this right. I have to see Ma off the way she wanted.

Tears suppressed, I stand stoically in my black suit, the fabric clinging to my skin, a physical reminder of the grief in my heart.

Stan’s presence is comforting, serving as a reminder of our friendship.

He's one of the few friends I have on the force who has chosen to look past the drama and controversy surrounding my departure from the police department. Deep down I think he knows—he figured out—the truth.

Around us, the cemetery is a sea of familiar faces—old colleagues who just like Stan believe that I’ve never been a dirty cop, distant relatives I barely recognize, and friends of my mother whose names get lost in the fog of my memory. They've come to pay their respects, yet their presence only amplifies the empty space Ma left behind.

"Let us commend Cecilia to the mercy of God," the priest intones, his voice steady despite the somber occasion. He reads passages from the Bible, offers prayers for her soul, and speaks of the resurrection—a promise of life after death that seems too ethereal to grasp.

And I pray silently that it’s true, that my father is waiting for her in Heaven now.

A few feet away, a table stands with a guest book, photographs of Ma smiling in happier times, and a jar for donations to her favorite charity. It's a traditional setup, but each element feels like a weight added to the burden I’m to carry.

As the murmuring of condolences and soft sobs fill the air, I see August weave through the crowd toward me. Our eyes meet, and something passes between us.

"Logan," August says, his Swedish lilt softer than I remember. His blue eyes are kind, reflecting genuine concern. He extends his arms for a hug. Stan respectfully takes a step back to give us space. He knows the complicated nature of my relationship with August. If anyone found out that I was seeing a man while I was working as a cop, it could ruin my career. There were some progressive colleagues, but the majority of the older officers and our superiors were not accepting of LGBTQ+ individuals on the force.

It doesn’t matter now. I’m not a cop anymore and August and I aren’t together.

"Thanks for coming," I tell him. The words catch in my throat, rough-edged and strained.

"She was... She was wonderful, Logan. Your mother," he says, his gaze flickering over my face, searching for something I'm not sure I can give. Funny thing, but Ma liked August. She encouraged me to tell my friends about him.

"Thanks." I manage a nod, fighting against the tide of memories that threaten to pull me under—the secret dinners, the laughter, the whispered compliments in the dark. Even though we both moved on, I miss it. Not him, but the intimacy you only find with the right partner.

"You're not alone. I know we didn't—"

"Finish your sentence?" I interject, the corner of my mouth twitching involuntarily.

August gives a half-smile, a sad crease forming between his brows. "I just mean... I'm here, if you need someone. We’re still friends. I care about you."

---