Chapter Thirty Nine
Catherine
November comes around. The air is crisp and clean, always scented with the tang of the ocean.
I don’t think it snows in San Diego, and I’ll miss that as the winter approaches.
I’ll miss the soft impact of my footsteps into a thick layer of snow, the windburn on my cheeks.
I’ll miss a winter that feels like winter.
I’ve settled into a routine of sorts. It’s not one anyone would be proud of. Mostly it consists of moping. I think, a lot. I cry. I try to unpack the last months of the short life of Catalina Russo.
The sweet little paw print bowls collect dust. I can hardly take care of myself.
I’ve been toying with a thought for the last few weeks. An idea. Mostly it started as a vengeful fantasy. But it’s morphed into something else, and the more time I have to ruminate on it, the more certain I am of what I want.
Alexei has ruled enough of my former life. He doesn’t get to ruin my new one before it begins.
It’s with that thought in mind that I buy myself a first-class ticket to Chicago. I could charter a jet—I could probably buy a jet, with the money stashed away in my bank account—but I want to test out my new credentials.
They pass muster with flying colors. Apparently, the mafia has connections everywhere.
My documents are legitimate as far as the United States government is concerned.
It’s still strange to hear myself addressed as Ms. Miller, but I’m growing accustomed to it.
Every day she feels more like me. Or maybe I feel more like her.
Maybe she can become whoever I want her to be.
Maybe she can become everything Catalina Russo never could and never will.
So I tell myself the things I hope will one day become true.
I tell myself that Catherine Miller is not a coward.
Catherine Miller lives her own life and does as she pleases.
Catherine Miller is strong, confident. Confident enough to rout a known mafia boss in his lair.
To demand an explanation. To demand an apology. I think I’m owed one. Several. Dozens.
But right now, Catherine Miller is mostly a seething mass of indecision and fury and confusion. The weight of unfinished business rests heavily upon her shoulders. It’s the rage of a woman scorned, the unspent frustration of violation, of dismissal. Of abandonment and loneliness.
I’m done with decisions being made for me. I’m done with being treated like a possession, like an object, a toy—something to be played with and cast aside when I cease to entertain. I’m done with the futility, the patronization, the assumptions made on my behalf.
My car pulls up outside the sprawling mansion I once shared with Alexei. It wasn’t hard to find. I paid attention on my rare trips out; I remember the turns.
The last time I arrived at this gate, I was broken, bruised, and bleeding on the rear floorboards of my father’s car. The last time I left through it, I had no idea it would be the last time.
I press the intercom button outside the closed gates.
“Peterson residence. May I help you?” The voice over the intercom is clear, mild, and without even the slightest inflection of a Russian accent.
Peterson residence? Is this another deception, some line of defense to weed out uninvited callers?
“I’m here to see Alexei,” I say. “Tell him Catherine has come to see him.”
“There’s no one here by that name.” The notes of confusion are obvious, truthful. “I beg your pardon, ma’am. Perhaps you’re looking for the previous owner?”
The previous owner. Something in my gut shifts, unsettled.
“Alexei Morozov,” I say. “He doesn’t—he isn’t—”
“Ma’am, my employers only recently acquired this property.” The voice over the end of the line is vaguely conciliatory, almost regretful. “I’m very sorry. If you like, I can inquire about a forwarding address—”
“No.” The word comes out bitter. “No, thank you. My mistake.”
But it wasn’t. The mistake wasn’t mine. It was his.