We’re in my SUV in under a minute. I peel out of the courthouse parking garage, tires screaming, and Izzy doesn’t tell me to slow down. She just grips the door handle with white knuckles and stares straight ahead.
“It’s Matthew,” she says quietly. “He did this.”
“I know.” My hands tighten on the wheel. “He found out we won. Found out Elena’s funding source was exposed. So he cleaned up loose ends.”
“She was a loose end.” Not a question.
“She knew too much. About his connection to the custody case, about his payments, maybe about other things.” I run a red light, cutting off a taxi. “Matthew doesn’t leave witnesses. Not when they can testify against him.”
“Oh God.” Izzy presses her hand to her mouth. “Mila. When she finds out?—”
“We tell her together.” I take a corner too fast, the SUV’s weight shifting. “We tell her the truth—that her mother’s gone. That it wasn’t an accident. That we’re going to find who did this and make them pay.”
“You can’t tell an eight-year-old?—”
“I won’t lie to her. Not about this.” My voice comes out harder than I intend. “She’s smart enough to know the difference between truth and comfort. She deserves truth.”
Izzy’s silent, processing. Then her hand finds my thigh, squeezing. “Okay. Together.”
We smell it before we see it.
Smoke. Gasoline. That particular acrid stench of burning metal and rubber and flesh that, once experienced, never leaves your memory.
I park three blocks away—cops have the entire street cordoned off with yellow tape. Fire trucks spray foam on what’s left of Elena’s Mercedes, and even from here, I can see there’s nothingleft. The entire front end is obliterated, metal twisted into abstract sculpture by the force of the explosion. Windows blown out in concentric circles. Hood crumpled like paper.
And in the driver’s seat?—
“Don’t look.” I pull Izzy against my chest, turning her face away. But it’s too late. She’s seen what’s left of Elena. Charred beyond recognition, slumped over the steering wheel, smoke still rising from what used to be a human being.
My ex-wife.
My daughter’s mother.
The woman I loved once, before love curdled into resentment and divorce papers.
Gone.
Izzy’s breathing too fast against my chest. Not crying—she’s past tears—just processing horror in real time. I hold her, one hand in her hair, the other pressed to her back, while emergency personnel swarm the scene.
“Mr. Orlov?”
I turn. A detective stands beside us, badge already out, expression grim. He’s mid-forties, grey at the temples, the kind of cop who’s seen enough bodies to be desensitized but not enough to stop caring.
“Detective...” I wait for him to fill in the blank.
“Fraser. I’m going to need you to come with me.” His hand moves toward his belt. “We have questions about Mrs. Orlov’s death.”
“It was a car bomb.” My voice sounds distant, hollow. “Professional work. You’re looking for Matthew Ashford—he’s got connections to?—”
“Save it for the station.” His hand closes on my arm, and I feel the cuffs before I see them. Cold metal clicking around my wrists, tight enough to bite. “Sergei Orlov, you’re under arrest for the murder of Elena Orlov. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law?—”
The Miranda rights blur into white noise. I’m watching Izzy’s face crumble, watching horror and fury war in those blue eyes. Another cop appears—young, nervous—trying to guide her away from the scene.
“Sergei—” She reaches for me, but the nervous cop blocks her path. “Don’t say anything. Not a word. I’ll call the lawyer. I’ll fix this?—”
“Take care of Mila.” The only words that matter. The only thing I care about in this moment. “When she finds out—when they tell her about Elena?—”
“I will. I promise.” Her voice cracks but holds. “I’ll protect her. I’ll explain. I’ll—” She stops, swallowing hard. “I’ll burn them all, Sergei. For this. For you.”
