Page 119 of Shattered Altar (Makarova Bratva Duet)

OLIVIA

I’ve never been on the third floor before.

There are fewer doors along the hallway, but the rooms are bigger. I open them up one by one, but each is the same as the next. Simple, tasteful furniture, a few paintings on the wall. It’s like walking through an abandoned hotel in purgatory.

Until I step through one doorway into a room that doesn’t look anything like the others.

This room belongs to someone. It has personality. Presence.

I shut the door behind me as silently as possible and venture into the room. “Hello?” I call, so quietly that my voice comes out in a squeak. I try again, this time with more confidence. “Hello? Is anyone here?”

The room is silent, thankfully. I wander towards a huge bureau with a tall, ornate mirror set in front. The surface is clean. But when I open the cupboards, they reveal a collection of gorgeous jewelry. It’s all statement pieces: large, gaudy gems and thick chains, dazzling in the light.

The exact kind of jewelry Isabella used to wear.

I pick up a bracelet dotted with turquoise stones. She had something similar to this. Except the stones were much smaller and it had cost ten dollars from a street market. I’m assuming this one had several more zeroes attached.

I feel a beat of sadness for the girl who had come so close to being my sister-in-law.

She had found her place in our family seamlessly from the day Rob first brought her home. She was pretty and open and laughed unreservedly. We loved her for all those things.

But more than anything, we loved Isabella because of how happy she made Rob. He was by far the surliest of the three of us, especially after we lost Dad, and she managed to make him soften his hard edges. He smiled and laughed more when he was with her.

I blink away the flood of memories and set the bracelet carefully back onto its velvet bed.

“You were pure,” I whisper to myself as I think of Isabella. “It’s why we liked you so much.”

I know I should get out of this room before someone catches me snooping, but somehow, I can’t bring myself to leave. There’s an air here that feels familiar. Comfortable.

When I realize I’m standing on shag carpeting, I take my flip-flops off and run my toes through the softness.

“Who are you?” I murmur. “Who do you belong to?”

I look around the room, waiting for the answer to present itself.

Nothing does. So I keep searching.

I wander into the walk-in closet. The space smells musty, and I don’t think anyone has been in here for a long time. But the clothes themselves look pristine. I trail my fingers over the fabrics and they all feel luxurious. Thick cottons, buttery suedes, smooth silks. Most of them still have their tags.

I’ve never been the type of girl who enjoys playing dress-up. But if anything was going to make a convert of me, this place would be it.

I pick out a navy blue power suit and, without thinking, disrobe and pull on the pants.

They’re well-fitted at the waist and thighs, but they flare out at the knees just enough to give me added height. They're long, though, so I pick a pair of black Jimmy Choo heels from the built-in shelves to keep the hems from dragging on the floor.

Then I put on the flowing white blouse that goes underneath the blue jacket. It fastens up the side with a black zipper.

When I put the jacket on to complete the look and turn to the mirror, I can’t help but stare.

I look… good.

I’m not accustomed to seeing myself this way, and I find that I like it more than I expected to. I strut up and down, enjoying the confidence the outfit gives me.

At least, until I trip several times and am forced to abandon the heels completely.

More drawers demand my attention. I riffle through in search of a name or a piece of handwriting or an ID. Something, anything, to tell me who this stuff belongs to.

“Who are you?” I whisper again to myself as I open each drawer in turn.

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