Colin doesn’t ask follow-up questions. Just gets his phone out and calls his half-sister right away. Luckily, she’s glad for the opportunity, and since she knows the bakery really well, she has no problem turning up tomorrow morning.
“Call me if there are any issues,” I say. “I want everything handled smoothly and without violence. Oh, and tell her she’s not allowed to fire or hire anyone without my approval.”
By the time they leave, it’s almost two in the morning. But instead of heading to bed, I finally give in to the temptation and open the security feed from Alina’s room on my laptop.
The lights are still on, and she paces like a caged animal. Her cat watches from the bed, tail twitching with each pass.
I switch to the audio feed, listening to her rapid breathing, the occasional muttered word I can’t quite make out. Her hair hangs loose around her face, partially hiding her features, but I can see the tear tracks on her cheeks, the way her hands clench and unclench at her sides.
What’s interesting is that she never tries the door or the windows. Both are unlocked, yet she never even tests them.
Eventually, she collapses onto the bed, curling into herself like a wounded animal. The cat immediately moves closer, pressing against her side. Her shoulders shake with silent sobs, her face buried in the pillow to muffle the sound.
I watch as she cries herself to sleep, the lights still blazing, her body still clothed. The cat settles beside her head, one paw resting on her hair as if in comfort.
Only when her breathing evens out do I turn my attention to the small bag I took from her and take her phone out. Pouring more whiskey, I pull out a cigar and reach for the silver cigar cutter on my table.
The ritual of preparation is a momentary distraction from the storm brewing inside me. The snip of the blade is clean and precise. I roll the Cuban between my fingers before placing it between my lips, lighting it with practiced efficiency.
Smoke curls around me, creating a gray veil through which I continue to watch. On screen, Alina shifts in her sleep, her hair spilling across the pillow.
I blow a perfect smoke ring toward the ceiling as I palm her phone, turning it over in my hand. The lock screen glows with a photo of her cat.
When I swipe away from the picture, the phone asks for her code. Six digits. I try her birthday first, but that’s incorrect. ThenI use her mom’s, also incorrect. On my third and last try, I use the date Sophia died, and the phone unlocks.
I’m almost disappointed at how easy it was. No matter how complex tech companies make it to break into phones and alarms, people keep making the technology unsafe with their sentimentality.
A quick scan of her device reveals almost nothing of interest. Her photo gallery is sparse; pictures of her cat, a few of the bakery, several of Sophia, and some of Alina with Sophia. No friends. No boyfriend.
Her messages are equally barren. A few texts with suppliers for the bakery and some communications with employees about scheduling.
Shaking my head, I finish off the whiskey and the cigar. Then I leave my office and head toward my master bedroom, only two doors from Alina.
I’m halfway down the hallway when I hear a strangled cry that cuts through the silence of the house like a blade. Alina. I freeze, listening. Another sound follows, not quite a scream but something close to it, muffled by walls and distance. It’s coming from her room.
My first instinct is to ignore it. Whatever demons chase her in her sleep aren’t my concern. But curiosity—something I’ve learned can be both useful and dangerous in equal measure—pushes me forward to her door.
I push the door open just enough to slip inside, leaving it cracked behind me. Alina thrashes on the bed, the sheets twisted around her legs like restraints. Her cat has retreated to the windowsill, watching with yellow eyes.
“No, please,” she whimpers, her head turning sharply to one side. “I can’t… Mom, I can’t…”
I pull the chair from the corner and position it near the bed, just out of reach should she suddenly wake. Then I sit, watching.Her face contorts with some invisible pain, tears leaking from beneath her closed eyelids.
“I’m sorry,” she gasps, back arching as if in physical pain. “I didn’t mean to…”
What nightmare grips her like this? What memory? I lean forward, oddly fascinated by this unguarded version of Alina. In sleep, she can’t hide behind silence or avoidance. Whatever haunts her is on full display.
She twists again, one arm flailing outward. Her t-shirt rides up with the movement, revealing a slice of pale skin at her waist, the soft curve of her stomach. I find my eyes lingering there, on the vulnerability of exposed flesh, before forcing my gaze back to her face.
The nightmare seems to ease, her breathing gradually steadying. I should leave. There’s no practical reason to stay, nothing to gain from watching her sleep. Yet I remain seated, watching the way her red hair spreads across the pillow, the steady rise and fall of her chest as her body finally relaxes.
Half an hour passes before I finally rise, slipping out as silently as I entered.
Chapter 9
Alina
It’s dark outside again.
