Midnight Lies (Tasarov Bratva 2)

EMERY

How can a cabin be this big?

I can’t even imagine how it was built. There are tall, towering trees as thick as three of me looming all around the lot, hiding the house until you’re practically on the front doorstep. How did they get equipment in here to construct it? Did they plant fully-grown trees after the fact? I doubt that’s possible. But then again, nothing about this house seems possible.

The main level is expansive. Three bedrooms, three bathrooms, a living room, dining room, office, and a kitchen, everything brimming with furniture that I can tell just from looking has several commas in the price tag.

There’s an upstairs as well. A narrow spiral staircase leads up to a loft. Bookshelves stuffed full line the walls and plush chairs are arranged in a loose circle in the middle of the room. A massive ottoman sits in the center.

In the other direction, there’s a lower level. It’s entirely below ground, lit by false frosted windows set into the walls and subtle light strips that run along the crown molding.

Most basements feel dark and dank, but this one is cozy. Thick carpets bed down in the hallways. The central feature is a movie theater. Reclined seats are arranged in a single row in front of a flat wall. A projector hangs from the ceiling, a bar set into the far corner.

I stay there and look around for a while, soaking it in. I try to imagine what kind of movies Adrik might like. It’s hard to picture him relaxing long enough to enjoy a movie. He’s so restless most of the time. Pure kinetic motion, pent-up violence, and lust.

I snoop around for his movie collection, giggling to myself as I imagine stumbling across a cache of cheesy rom-coms. But no such luck. My search comes up empty.

Sighing, I turn to see what else I can find.

Another hallway branches off to the back of the house, thick doors set into the wood-accented walls. The one on the right is a guest room, clearly. The bed is large, but the decor is impersonal. Neutral-colored bed linens, a towel and washcloth folded and set on the shelf beneath the bedside table. The closet and drawers are empty.

I expect to find the same across the hall. Which is weird in its own right, because I can’t imagine that Adrik receives many visitors here.

But when I push the door open, I freeze on the threshold, instantly guilty.

This room is not impersonal.

This room is someone’s.

It’s filled with personal belongings, personal touch. Colorful, modern paintings on the walls, a lavender throw blanket across the foot of the bed, and so many clothes.

Women’s clothes, to be specific.

They’re in the closet, on the floor, and strewn across the chair in the corner… almost like the owner just left.

Except for one thing: the room is trashed.

The paintings hang crookedly on the walls. One of them is even slashed down the center. The bed is shredded, stuffing and feathers laying in clumps across the comforter and the carpet. The contents of the closet have been thrown around the room like someone was grabbing fistfuls and hurling them over their shoulder in a blind rage.

I glance behind me to make sure no one is around and then step into the room, pulling the door mostly closed.

I pick up a black dress on the floor. The silk slips through my fingers like water.

“This wasn’t cheap,” I mutter to myself. Then I look around. “None of this was.”

I might wonder who lived here… but I think I already know.

Still, I lurk around the edges of the room, tiptoeing like the owner might suddenly appear and catch me. If my hunch is right, though, I don’t think that’s possible anymore.

I move towards the bed and notice shreds of paper scattered around. I gather them up and piece them together like a puzzle.

“‘Congratulations,’” I read as the image comes together, “‘on the engagement of…’”

I trail off, understanding all at once what I’m looking at.

Adrik looks the same in the photo in my hand. Like no time has passed at all. He’s smiling—a rare sight in and of itself—and his arm is wrapped around a petite woman. She’s tan with bright white teeth and caramel brown hair.

“She’s gorgeous,” I breathe, hating that it’s true.

“Less so, now that she’s dead.”

I jolt and guiltily scatter the ripped pieces of paper across the bed. When I turn around, Adrik is standing stone-faced in the doorway. His eyebrow is raised.

“There’s no need to hide anything from me. I’ve already seen it,” he says. “I’m the one who ripped it up.”

I expect him to be outraged that I’m in here, but Adrik just watches me.

“Why?” I finally ask.

“I was angry,” he says simply. “I reacted without thinking. You know a thing or two about that.”

I huff. “Actually, I was thinking when I ran away from you. I was thinking, ‘How do I get away from him forever?’”

Adrik surprises me by laughing. “In that case, I was thinking, ‘How do I get rid of Sofia’s memory the fastest?’ Shredding it all seemed like the best option.”

“Why not just throw it away?”

“This was faster.” He steps into the room, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. “But… I haven’t been back here since just after the accident. After Sofia died, the Volandris declared war. My father wanted me to lay low for a while. So I came here.”

“Did you… did you buy this house with her?” The twist of jealousy in my stomach is sharp and vicious.

Sofia is dead. I can’t be jealous of a dead woman.

Except…

I am.

Adrik shakes his head. “No. I bought this place before I ever met her. It’s mine. But she claimed this room as her own.”

“You two didn’t share a room?”

I know what I want him to say. What I want him to say is, Of course we didn’t. I never even touched her. I was waiting for the wedding night. I’m as virginal and pure as the driven snow.

Instead, he nods. “We did. But when I had to leave for business, she didn’t like sleeping upstairs without me. She’d come down here.”

“Oh. I see.”

“Plus, she had way too many fucking clothes,” he adds with a low chuckle. “They wouldn’t all fit in the closet upstairs.”

He pulls his hands out of his pockets and starts gathering up the clothes on the floor. He drapes jeans and dresses and t-shirts over his arm. He kicks shoes towards the door, piling everything up.

“Do you want help cleaning up?” I ask.

The thought of tidying up Sofia’s things and preserving this bizarre memorial to her makes me feel physically ill—though that could be the pregnancy nausea talking. But if that’s what Adrik wants…

“I’m not cleaning up,” he answers.

“Then what are you doing?”

“I’m going to burn it. All of it. I want this shit gone.”

I thought a memorial to her was bad, but somehow, Adrik wanting to burn her stuff makes me feel even worse.

“Is it that hard to look at all of her stuff even after all this time?” I ask quietly.

Adrik snorts and pauses to glance at me. “You can’t actually believe I’m that sentimental.”

“Well, I don’t know,” I admit. “You came down here and shredded her stuff. That seems… passionate.”

He throws the clothes he’s holding towards the door and turns to me. “That wasn’t passion. It was rage.”

“That’s a kind of passion, isn’t it?” I ask. “It’s an extreme emotion.”

“Directed at the fact that she betrayed me.”

“Because you loved her.”