Chapter 49
Alexei
The attic of Roman’s compound stretches above us like a tomb, dark and suffocating with family secrets. Dust clings to every surface. Outdoor security lights illuminate slivers of the space, streaming in through the small windows. The cardboard boxes stacked against the sloped ceiling catch my attention.
Guilt carves a hole in my heart as I drag the one labeled “Mikhail Jr.” from beneath a pile of forgotten holiday decorations. I’ve never gone through this stuff, never wanted to face the remnants of the life I destroyed by sending my brother to prison in my place.
Aurora crouches beside me, careful to keep the weight off of her battered knees. She doesn’t need to speak. Her presence anchors me, keeping me from drowning in the shame that threatens to pull me under every time I think of my brother.
I pull the dusty flaps on the box open, half-expecting a ghost to leap out.
A ghost, a memory, an accusation.
Aurora shifts closer, her uninjured shoulder nudging mine. The faint scent of her fruity perfume cuts through the musty attic air, grounding me in the present when all I want to do istumble backward into the past. Into a time when MJ was alive and I hadn’t screwed everything up.
The box contains MJ’s life, packed away like it meant nothing. Prison paperwork on top. Release forms. Property inventories. The bureaucratic documentation of a man’s existence reduced to items that could fit in a plastic bag. I lift these out, set them aside. Beneath, I find a stack of notebooks. A watch with a cracked face. A small Bible with a prison stamp inside the cover.
“He wasn’t religious.” The words escape before I can stop them.
Aurora picks up the Bible, flipping through its pages with careful fingers. “Sometimes people find faith when they’re desperate.”
I don’t tell her that MJ would have considered that weakness. I just reach for the notebooks.
There are several identical black composition books with marbled covers. I open the first one, expecting a journal, a confession, something that might explain why he killed himself if that’s really the case. Instead, I find workout logs. Page after page of reps, sets, weights. Obsessive and methodical prison exercise. The only control he had in that place.
“He kept himself strong.” Aurora traces a finger over a page filled with numbers, the dates marking the passing of years. “Every day.”
The tightness in my chest threatens to choke me. I remember MJ before prison. Always the strongest, always in motion, always filling a room with his presence. I try to picture him in a cell, confined to inches instead of miles, mapping his strength in these tiny notations. The image burns.
I flip through the next notebook. More of the same, but with some additions. Notes about other inmates. Debts owed. Favors traded. The currency of prison life.
Aurora grasps my knee. “He was surviving.”
“Because of me.” I force myself to keep turning pages, to confront what I’ve done. “He was there because of me.”
Her fingers tighten on my knee. “He loved you. He chose to protect you.”
I want to snap and tell her she doesn’t know shit. But the anger dies before it reaches my lips. She does know. Aurora gave up everything for her sister. She understands sacrifice in ways most people never will.
In the final pages of the third notebook, we find a rough hand-drawn map of a coastline.
Aurora peers at the picture, head tilted. “Is that an island?”
Once recognition sinks in, my confusion mounts. “Looks like Isla de Huesos. The Isle of Bones. The family used to have vacation homes there.”
I flip through the notebook’s pages, thoughts drifting to what this could mean. An envelope slides out. Inside is a yellowed newspaper clipping with a blurry photo of a burning building. Together, we scan the contents. The article, dated fifteen years ago, details an unsolved incident on the Isle of Bones. Dozens of people died or went missing after a tropical storm and a fire. There are references to a gang war and several civilian witnesses.
Aurora studies the map again. “You know what? This looks like the painting above your bed…I mean our bed.”
“You’re right.” The painting is one of the few personal touches in the loft. “We went almost every summer and Christmas.” My throat clogs. “Something happened, a long time ago.” I gesture toward the article. “That.”
Her hand slips into mine, warm and small and steady. “What happened, exactly?”
I release a slow breath. “No clue. None of us were there. Just Roman and Igor…and MJ. We have no idea what went down,only that Roman’s wife and young daughter died during the fire. Roman forbade us from ever speaking of it, and we never went back to the island. I guess MJ never let it go.”
Horror colors Aurora’s face. “Oh my god! That’s terrible. I’m…I’m so sorry.”
“So am I.” I kiss her hand, grateful she’s here with me.
