“Okay.” A pause. “I miss you.”
I close my eyes. “I miss you too, sweetheart.”
When I hang up, the silence in the apartment feels too big. I scroll through listings again until one catches my eye—a small bungalow north of town, right on the river.
Close to the estate.
Closer than I probably should be.
Saturday afternoon, I meetDonna, the realtor, in front of the place.
It’s perfect in that imperfect way I like: chipped paint on the porch rail, overgrown garden, sunlight filtering through pines. The river runs just beyond the backyard, wide and bright. I can hear it from the driveway.
“This one’s a gem,” Donna says, flipping through her folder. She’s in her fifties, short and cheerful, the kind of woman who looks like she’s never met a stranger. “Two bedrooms, one bath, full basement. It’s been on the market a while, so the price is negotiable. Unfortunately, the owners were elderly, and the kids like the city.”
Inside, the house smells faintly of cedar and lemon cleaner. The floors creak; the kitchen’s small but functional.
For the first time in years, I can actually picture it. Andi’s art supplies on the table, her laughter echoing down the hall, mornings by the river, and mom sitting out on the porch with a cup of tea.
“I could see us here,” I admit.
Donna beams. “It’s a great spot. Quiet, but not too isolated.”
We step out onto the porch again, and she leans on the railing, gazing toward the water. “You know, this stretch of the river used to be nothing but old fishing shacks. Then the Russians moved in.”
I blink. “The Russians?”
“Oh, sure.” She waves a hand as if it’s common knowledge. “Mafia money, sweetheart. Don’t let the fancy talk fool you—BarHarbor’s got its claws in all sorts of business. How could it not? Money attracts sharks.”
I try to laugh it off, but it catches in my throat. “There’s aRussianmafia?”
She gives me a sideways look, one that says,Aren’t you naïve?Then she smiles, eyes crinkling. “Sure, the Italians are known for it, but there are plenty of crime syndicates out there. Especially in remote places. Fewer eyes to see the crimes, you know?”
“Do they really have that kind of presence here?”
Donna shrugs. “Let’s just say there’s a reason the biggest estate on this river has gates high enough to keep out God himself.”
My pulse jumps. “Which estate?”
“You’ve probably seen it,” she says, lowering her voice like it's gossip. “The Medvedev compound. His family’s been here for decades. Everyone called his dad ‘The Bear.’ Now it’s just him, I think.”
The words hit me like a punch in the stomach.
The Bear.
But Makari’s father is gone. I’ve picked up on that much thanks to Lauren’s gentle guidance and the beautiful portrait in the front hall.
My mouth goes dry. “You mean Makari Medvedev?”
“That’s the one. Owns half the town through shell companies. Some folks say he’s dangerous; others say he’s a saint. Depends on which side of his claws you’re on, I guess.”
Donna laughs lightly, but I can’t seem to join her. My thoughts are spinning too fast, pieces falling into place all at once—the guards, the locked rooms, the ring, the whispers.
The Bear.
That night, back at the apartment, I sit on the edge of the bed and stare at the ceiling until the light from the bar flickers out.
Makari Medvedev.
