His jaw tightens. "I know. I heard. We need to go. Now. It's not safe here." He gestures towards a dark SUV, barely visible through the trees.
We follow him, exhausted, terrified, but clinging to the hope he represents. He opens the back door for us. As I slide in, I glance at him. His face is impassive, but there's a flicker in his eyes, something I can't quite place. It's too quick, too fleeting, and too difficult to see in the shadowed streetlight.
25
VIKTOR
Clarissa answers the door instead of her housekeeper. She's wearing an old sweater and looks tired and drawn. I almost expected her not to be home, because the Clarissa I know would be fulfilling what she believes are her social obligations. A Clarissa without makeup and in an old sweater is something I’ve never seen, even when Peter and I were married.
"Viktor?” Her voice sounds as tired as she looks.
"I need to talk to you." I don't wait for an invitation before I shoulder past her. My money pays for this penthouse, anyway.
I'm here to get an explanation from my ex-wife, to try to understand if she has anything to do with Leah's disappearance and whoever shot Iliya. My right-hand man was barely conscious and suffering from heavy blood loss when I made it to the hospital. So I'm here, trying to piece together this horrific puzzle, and I’m starting with people who have a reason to make Leah disappear.
For once, my ex-wife doesn't argue. Instead, she shuts the door and follows me into the living room with a view of Manhattan's snowy skyline.
"Answering the door yourself?" I ask. "Does your housekeeper have the day off? Am I paying for that, too?"
Clarissa waves away the question, rolling her eyes as she does. "Peter's frightened away another one. He thinks they're his servants and treats them badly. This is the third one I've lost in the last six months."
When Clarissa talks about our son, not a single word is critique; she's never been able to see his shortcomings. It’s an admission that stuns me for a long moment, and I watch her sink onto the couch, folding one leg under her. Her blue eyes are red-rimmed. I don't know if I've ever seen her look quite so tired.
Even a year ago, I wouldn't have cared. I wouldn't have noticed. If I had, my anger would have meant reveling in her evident exhaustion. But our divorce was a long time ago. I'm a different person now. And maybe Leah's taught me a few things, like looking past the obvious, because I find myself asking Clarissa, "Are you okay?"
Clarissa jerks, as if I'd told her I was going to stop paying alimony. "What?"
"I asked if you're okay," I repeat. "Have you been sick?"
"No." Her voice is laced with suspicion; a suspicion reflected in her eyes. She watches me like she's expecting a trick.
"I know I'm not supposed to say this to a woman," I begin, "but you look tired. Worryingly so."
"Oh, so you have a new woman in your life, and suddenly you care about everyone?" Her laugh is bitter, but it's the answer I expected. I don't reply, but remain quiet, watching her.
And then my ex-wife does something odd, something unexpected. Her shoulders slump, and her head drops for a moment as she rubs at her forehead with her palm.
"Peter." The word holds a myriad of answers. "The accident destroyed him."
"He feels guilty about Roxanne?"
"No." The word comes out on a sigh. Clarissa shakes her head. "Angry about being paralyzed. Who wouldn't be?"
"Sure."
Clarissa shrugs. "I get it; I do. He's become anabsolute nightmare. He's always angry, always screaming. He's run every single nurse, physical therapist, and helper out of here. I'm the only one left. I don't know how much longer I can take it."
This is entirely unexpected: My ex-wife admitting that our son, the way she raised him, resulted in a spoiled man-child. She must surely be exhausted and at the end of her rope for her to admit this to anyone, much less to me.
"I know I’ve always thought he was perfect, and he was my life. I tried to be his mother, to make sure he had everything he needed. You know, I didn't have money growing up, and I wanted him to have the life I didn't. I was trying to make up for the divorce and for having you as a father. He never felt good enough. He always felt like he was in your shadow. But I see now what amonster I’ve made him. I thought those kinds of issueswould go away when you have enough money, the kind of money he had. I mean, it certainly tricked Leah into loving him."
I grit my teeth and swallow the comment, the backhanded insult about the woman I love. For once, we're getting somewhere.
"Then Andrei would stop by and tell Peter I was right to keep him away from you. You'd only ruin his life."
Again, I have to quiet my reply, quiet my surprise at hearing that my brother, my own brother, was not only visiting my son but actively telling him to stay away from me. I don't understand, although something starts tingling in the back of my mind. Something has been bothering me for a while now, but I've attributed it to the situation with Leah and my efforts to control the rebellion within my ranks.
"Did Peter keep in contact with Marius?" I ask.
