Page 2 of Shattered Altar (Makarova Bratva Duet)

“Okay, rude!” she scoffs.

“Anyway—yes, I’m hoping it’s not a huge delay.”

“It always is,” Mia says immediately.

“Don’t jinx it.”

She laughs. “You superstitious little weirdo.”

“Yeah, well, sue me. I am what I am. I’ll let you know when I know more. I don’t want you camped out at SFO waiting for me.”

“Honestly,” she says, lowering her voice, “I don’t mind…”

I cringe. “Oh no. Is it Rob?”

“No, but… well, it is his first Christmas without her,” she says. She doesn’t have to explain much more.

“Is he doing any better?” I ask tentatively. “Every time I call him, he seems so distracted.”

“Well, that might not be about Isabella. I think there’s something big going down at work,” she says.

“Ooh, drama at the Bureau,” I giggle. “Did he say what? Is it a serial killer? I bet it’s a serial killer. It’s always a serial killer.”

“No, you clown,” Mia says with an exasperated laugh. “He never talks about work. It’s freaking annoying. Especially because he’s the one with the cool job. It’s rude to work for the FBI and never talk about it!”

“Guess he’s burying himself in work then. Is that healthy?”

“I don’t blame him, honestly. I’d probably do the same.”

I nod, feeling that sharp pain in my chest whenever I think about Rob and everything he’s gone through in the last year. It’s changed him. There are moments when he feels like a different man altogether. Like the brother I loved is gone and he isn’t ever coming back.

“Wait—so if you weren’t talking about Rob, what did you mean?”

“Nothing,” she says, a little too quickly. “It’s just… Christmas is always hard on Mom.”

Immediately, the lump forms in my throat. Well, “forms” isn’t the right word, because it’s been there for so long now that it’s starting to feel like a part of me. More like it throbs with a pain I’ve tried so, so hard to forget.

Dad loved Christmas an unreasonable amount. We were the only house on the street that had their decorations up at the beginning of November, and the last house to take them down on the final day of January. If it weren’t for Mom, he would’ve left them up until summertime, probably.

“I can’t believe he’s been gone seven years,” I whisper.

“I know,” she says. “It’s weird. Feels like he’s been gone forever, honestly.”

“Really?” I ask. “For me, it feels like it happened just yesterday.”

We sit with our shared grief for a moment. There was a time when I avoided talking about Dad altogether. It was just too painful. But over the years, I’ve learned to open up to Mia. She is still the only one I feel comfortable crying around.

“You were so much younger,” she says.

“I was eighteen,” I point out. “I was old enough. Old enough to know better.”

“Oh, honey, let’s not go there, okay?” she says. “I thought you were done with the guilt.”

“I’m never done with it, Mimi. It just comes and goes.”

She pauses and breathes for a moment. Then: “Liv, maybe you should talk to someone?”

“I tried that,” I snap, a little more harshly than she deserves. “Twice, actually. But both shrinks I saw spoke in Bumper Sticker.”

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