Page 69 of Scars He Gave Me (Bratva Crime Syndicate 2)

The last thing I want to do is rehash my sudden breakup, but the only way she’s letting this go is if I give her a reason why I’m not already on the phone with Tomas. “I can’t ask Tomas because we’re finished. I’m never talking to him again.”

Her mouth falls open and she tilts her head with the sympathy hand on my shoulder. “Are you okay? What happened?”

I shrug. “We aren’t the same people we were when we were young. And the people we are now won’t work out.” A clean-cut and simple explanation for something messy and complicated.

“Oh, Corinne. I’m so sorry.” She pulls me into a hug I don’t particularly want or need. “I don’t know what to say. Are you okay?”

I nod because I’ve had a while to process, to grieve, to numb myself with Mom’s secret stash of wine and chocolate. “I guess. I mean …” I shrug. I don’t know what I mean. “I want to hate him, you know? I want to be angry and say ugly things, but …”

I shrug again. I can’t. And that’s the worst part of our breakup. I don’t hate him. And I don’t want to talk about it anymore.

“Email the program. I want to go over it.”

Leila leans over her computer and types. “Alright. I sent it. But I think we’d be better off making new résumés and figuring out where to send them than worrying about this thing.”

She’s right. She and I can just walk away from all this. Start over somewhere new. I’ll get the job hunt started first thing tomorrow, but today, I’m going over this thing to figure out how I missed Peyton making me look like a fool, duping me into a false sense of security.

I also want to survey the damage, see what breadcrumbs Peyton may have forgot to clean up. There’ll be clues in here—enough of the original script that’ll lead me to the real program. I’ll bet everything I have that inside the lines of code, he’ll have left a trail straight to him, and I’m going to find it.

“Look, I have to go pick up my mom from her salon appointment, but I can come back if you want. So you aren’t alone. When are your folks returning?” Leila’s packing up her laptop, has it tucked under her arm, and is inching toward the door. I want to spend the afternoon, evening, overnight—as long as it takes—figuring out what Peyton’s done.

So, I sigh like the dutiful daughter holding down the family fort. “I have no idea. You know Mom. She’s loving being a real housewife of Beverly Hills and Dad’s only just now figured out how to surf.” I might never get them back here. That’s for the best, though. Until I know it’s safe, no way am I risking the safety of the only people I have left.

“You sure you don’t want me to stay? I could pick up some Ben and Jerry’s and we can check the job boards for some freelance work.” She moves a few steps closer to leaving.

I smile because I’m dying to dig into the computer file on my own. If I give any sign I’m not okay, she’ll probably hunker down here and never leave again. She’s stubborn like that.

“I’m fine. We’ll find new jobs. We have skills. I’m not worried.” There’s plenty of time to worry tomorrow.

“Okay. If you’re sure.” I walk her to the front porch and smile and wave as she drives off.

Then it’s a pot of coffee, my laptop, and an unbroken stretch of hours to do what I’ve been doing since I was ten years old—solving puzzles.

* * *

Although, three hours later, I can’t find anything out of the ordinary, which is the most out of the ordinary thing I’ve ever seen. When this kind of thing happens, there’s only one thing for me to do: take a break. Watch some mindless TV and let my brain reboot. A second look will yield results, or I’ll reboot again until it does because I know somewhere inside this thing, there’s a clue.

I’m on the sofa with a bag of Cheetos, a can of soda, and the remote control, when there’s a knock. I check the window for the car of guards Tomas hasn’t reassigned yet. Occasionally, they need a bathroom break. Since they’re only here because of me, the least I can do is share the facilities. I’ve even invited them in before, but no matter who’s out there—Demetri and Yerkhov, Evgeni and Petr, Sergei and Ilya—they decline. I assume it’s got something to do with the rules Tomas set.

“Who is it?”

“It’s me, Corrie. Open up.”

My breath catches in my throat. One voice in my head is screaming at me to tell Tomas to fuck off. I would… but for the sadness I can hear in his tone. I’m not strong enough to battle my own emotions and build up an immunity to his, too.

The hinges squeal when I pull the old door open. Also, I haven’t yet figured out how not to melt when I see him.

His suit is black and crisp, though his tie is loose and hanging a little to the left. Even with bags under his eyes and a stare as grim as can be, he’s so handsome that it hurts my stomach to see it.

“My dad is dead.” His voice matches his stare.

My heart plummets. “I’m so sorry, Tomas.” I lay my hand on his arm. I’m comforting him. That’s all.

He sighs, and I move back to let him in. “Thanks.” When he brushes past me, I get a whiff of his cologne then mentally chastise myself for even thinking about burying my face in his shirt and inhaling until I can convince myself to move away.

“You want something to drink?” But he shakes his head and moves to look at the pictures on the mantel. I’m standing in the doorway still, dumbstruck and more confused than I’ve ever been in my life.

I don’t know what to say.

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