Page 85 of The Unseen
Drew shook his head. “I haven’t. I have a good mate in Border Protection. He ran Quentin’s information from the year she left Jesse Holt through the system. She left the U.K. that summer. The next entry for her came up three years later. She flew into London from Paris. After that, the trail goes cold.”
“So, what now? How do we find her?”
“I have an idea, but I have to wait and see if it works before telling you about it. I don’t want to get your hopes up.”
“Drew, how can a person just disappear in this day and age? Would there be no record of her changing her name?”
“Change of name records are not public domain. You wouldn’t find it online.”
Quinn stared down at the tips of her shoes. She hadn’t meant to cry in front of Drew, but bitter tears of disappointment slid down her cheeks. Her sister’s absence pained her like aphantom limb. She’d been desperate to find her parents, but that quest had never felt as important or urgent as this need to find her sister.
“Drew, please. I need to find her,” she whispered.
Drew placed a sympathetic hand on her shoulder. “Quinn, I’m pursuing every possible lead, but they don’t seem to go anywhere. As a private investigator, my resources are limited. My buddies on the force were able to look into Quentin’s passport control record, but I can’t ask them to do more than that. That would be unlawful use of resources. There’s one more thing I’d like to try before admitting failure. Shall I give it a go?”
Quinn nodded. “Yes. Try anything you can think of. I’m not giving up, Drew. I’m not.”
“I’ll ring you in a few days.”
Quinn watched Drew walk away. She felt angry and deflated. Without the cooperation of Quentin’s solicitor or her siblings, Drew had hit a dead end in his investigation without getting much further than Quinn and Logan had.
She fished out her mobile and dialed Logan before walking into the building. Logan answered on the first ring. “Hey, Quinny. Any news?”
“The only news is that there’s no news. Drew has exhausted his resources, Logan.” Quinn sniffed loudly.
“Are you crying?” Logan asked, his voice softening.
“A little,” she admitted.
“Look, sis, it seems to me that Quentin doesn’t want to be found. Maybe we should respect her wishes and back off. Surely she’s heard of our existence by now, either from her solicitor or from her siblings. It’s been months, and still we’ve had no word. Sometimes you have to let things go, no matter how much it hurts to admit defeat.”
“I can’t, Logan,” Quinn whimpered. “She’s our sister—my twin. If she doesn’t want to have anything to do with me once we’ve found her, I will walk away and never bother her again, but I want to see her and speak to her. If only just once. I’ll never feel whole until I do.”
“I understand,” Logan replied. “And I’m here to help in whatever way I can.”
Quinn ended the call and walked slowly toward the door of her flat, her shoulders slumped and her head bowed.
FIFTY-ONE
JUNE 1919
London, England
A gentle sun glowed in a cloudless sky, bathing the garden in golden light. It was the kind of day that made a person believe that anything was possible and that nothing terrible would ever happen again. Of course, that was just an illusion, but as Valentina sat back in a lounge chair and turned her face up to the sun, she truly wanted to believe it. After months of oppression, anxiety, and fear for the future, she felt free as a bird. She still couldn’t quite believe her mad idea had worked. No one had questioned her marriage to Dmitri Ostrov. In fact, everyone had offered their condolences on the loss of her husband, even Father Mikhail, who’d been only too happy to provide a marriage certificate for her solicitor, Mr. Gravelle.
In the past two weeks, Mr. Gravelle had initiated an application for citizenship, since, as the wife of a British subject, Valentina could now apply, and had been able to obtain access to Dmitri’s bank accounts, through which he’d been able to track Dmitri’s business activities. Mr. Gravelle had contacted the managers of the textile factory in Lancashire, the warehouse Dmitri owned at Victoria Dock, the Falmouth Arms Hotel, and the boxing club Dmitri frequented to advise them of Dmitri’s disappearance and his wife’s new role as acting director. Valentina had had no idea Dmitri had his fingers in so many pots, and the knowledge that he hadn’t exactly been strapped for cash made her blood boil. Perhaps he’d simply enjoyed exercising his power over helpless women, and she strongly suspected that his wife Emily had been one of them. The paperwork stored in the safe showed that all the holdings except the boxing club had passed to Dmitri from Emily’s father upon his death.
Valentina couldn’t sell any of the businesses without Dmitri’s signature or a valid death certificate, but she could take up the reins until his death was legalized. She had much to learn, but she had all the time in the world, and she would hire a competent man to help her manage all of Dmitri’s holdings.
Valentina closed her eyes and sank deeper into the chair. What utter bliss. Especially since the house was quiet. Elena, Tanya, and Kolya had gone off to the zoological garden, per Kolya’s request, but Valentina had pleaded a headache and remained at home. She needed a little time alone to gather her thoughts and try to make peace with her new reality. Deep down, she still couldn’t believe she’d taken a man’s life, but the night Dmitri had died had taken on the quality of a fragmented dream that one recalled upon waking, grateful that the warm light of day had come to chase away the shadows of the nightmare. Now that the “truth” was out, everyone treated her as if she were a fragile glass ornament that might break from excessive handling. Forced to play the part of the grieving widow, she was starting to believe it herself and enjoy the role. It was easier than dealing with the hideous truth of what she’d done and asking herself over and over if there was something she might have done to avoid the disastrous events that had led her to murder.
Valentina must have drifted off in the warm sunshine, but woke with a start when a shadow loomed over her.
“Sorry to wake you, Mrs. Ostrov, but there’s a gentleman to see you,” Mrs. Nemirovsky announced in gentle tones. “He’s most insistent.”
“Show him into the parlor. I’ll be right in.”
Valentina took a moment to collect herself. She wasn’t expecting anyone, but she wasn’t overly worried. Mrs. Nemirovsky had met Detective Cooper and his associates. If the caller was from the police, she would have said so. This had to be a social call, perhaps another acquaintance come to offer condolences. Dmitri had been well-known in the quickly growingRussian community, and well-liked, at least by those he hadn’t victimized.
