Page 32 of Thorns of Lust
I scoffed softly.Our personal life.
When did it all go sideways with us? Was it the reason for the tension in the last few months? Maybe I missed signs that were there all along. If I paid closer attention to what was happening around us rather than putting demands on him, could I have seen the signs? Maybe I could have saved him. We could have fixed things together.
And Adrian would still be here. I’d still have him. We’d have the possibility of a future.
Pain, raw and angry, grabbed me by the throat. It clawed at my heart. It stabbed at it. My ears rang and frostbite spread through my chest, suffocating. I blinked hard as a soft sob escaped me. I cupped my mouth to stifle it.
“I wish you would have said something,” I choked on the words, but tears still didn’t come. “Anything.”
I pressed my palm against the cold stone. Maybe his spirit would rest here, but his body wouldn’t.Ashes.My husband has been reduced to ashes. I’d give anything to remember what had happened.
An excruciating ache shot through me. A reminder that I’d never get a chance to say goodbye properly.
I pulled out my phone and dialed the number. I had come to listen to his voicemail a lot. Too much to be healthy.
The answering machine picked up and my heart skidded to a halt. “The number you have dialed has been disconnected.”
“No, no, no,” I muttered, looking at the screen. Maybe I dialed the wrong number. So I dialed it again. The same answer. “The number you have dialed has been disconnected.”
My heart sank. It was bound to happen. “Fucking efficient people,” I cursed, although truthfully it wasn’t efficient. It had been weeks.
I ended the call and slid my phone in the pocket of the dress. Thank fuck they made dresses with hidden pockets.
The wind picked up and I shivered, wrapping my arms around me. My eyes drifted over the cluster of headstones surrounding the mausoleum. Another dedication caught my eyes.
Here lies a Rose. My Rose.
With broken thorns.
A debt paid, but not satisfied.
A black rose and poisonous thorn.
Adrian always referred to his mother as a rose. I found it bizarre but then my brothers referred to our mother as ‘psycho bitch’ so who was I to judge. At least ‘rose’ sounded affectionate. I read the dedication again.
It was a coincidence; it had to be. Nobody else knew about Adrian and the nickname for his mother. Not even my best friend. Definitely not my brothers. I searched for the date of birth and death but there was none. Just this cryptic poem, or maybe a message, carved on a plain tombstone.
Shaking my head, I averted my gaze back to Adrian’s resting place and my brows furrowed. Then I realized. They had a theme. Yet, I knew Adrian had no family here.
We, the Nikolaev family, were his family. At least I thought so.
Who came up with these dedications? None of them made any sense.
With a last glance on the crypt, I turned around and left more at a loss than ever.
The cemetery offered no answers. Only more questions.
* * *
An hour later I stood in front of the building of New Orleans Municipal Cemeteries on Tchoupitoulas Street.
I didn’t need to turn around to know that Yan was close by. He always lingered in the shadows, watching over me. Something I despised before, but now I found comfort and safety in it.
Pushing the heavy door open, I made my way inside. The website had given me the name of a superintendent for New Orleans Municipal Cemeteries so I searched the directory board for it. Second floor.
Jane Ford, Cemeteries Superintendent.
I shook my head at the title engraving against the door. At least it was easy to find.
