45 - Monty
45
Monty
—
Three days later, the hunt for Sirena Fisher continues.
What a fucking nightmare.
My head pounds as I stand at the kitchen sink and guzzle water and aspirin.
Leo and Kody are in Sitka today. But not without their bodyguards. Kody needs to be at the distillery while they work through typical growing pains. Leo is meeting with contractors to do walk-throughs of his seaplane base, mapping out the water for landings and takeoffs, the appurtenant shore, hangars, and facilities. He has a lot of decisions to make over the next few weeks.
Frankie isn’t scheduled to work at the hospital until next week and hasn’t left the island since Sirena went missing.
Thank fuck for that.
As much as she resents Sirena, she’s worried about her. My wife has become withdrawn, quiet, seemingly lost in her head.
All of this puts me on edge.
“What?” I brace my hands on the counter, refusing to meet the judgmental eyes at my back.
“You need to eat,” Oliver says in an unruffled tone.
“That’s not why you’re here, digging your beady little eyes into my skin.”
“So uptight. You need to get laid.”
“Also, not why you’re here.”
“You’re right.” He drifts closer.
I don’t hear him moving, but I feel him like a shadow creeping up my spine.
Peering over my shoulder, I don’t find him there.
What the fuck?
I twist, glancing over my other shoulder.
When did he move to the other side of the kitchen island?
He glares at me with a carving knife poised in his hand.
Fucking creepy.
The blade drips with juices from the slab of meat he’s cutting. While wearing a suit, no less. The gold watch chain glints under the soft kitchen lights as he studies me.
If I didn’t know better, I would suspect him of sending morbid gifts to my wife. His hidden accent and old-world manners hint at a sophisticated yet dangerous past.
But over the years, I have dug and dug, trying to unearth dirt on Oliver Popov.
He’s just an old Russian chef, who manages my diet and well-being with a precision that borders on obsessive.
“You should not have involved the police.” He saws into the meat. “They will only slow things down.”
“The police are our best chance of finding Sirena.”
He sets down the knife, wiping his hands on a white towel, leaving streaks of blood. “The police are…bureaucratic. They follow procedures, protocols. If the woman I loved were threatened, I would cut down every person who looked at her. I would take matters into my own hands.”
This old guy?
“What are you suggesting?” I narrow my eyes. “Should I cut you for looking at her?”
He shrugs.
Sitka authorities are only involved in part of the investigation. They don’t know about the heart or threats to Frankie’s phone. They don’t know she murdered Denver.
I’ve been in contact with Wilson constantly, trying to glean the truth about Sirena. He swears she was fully vetted when he hired her a few years ago. He personally assigned her to my investigation when I was looking for Frankie.
He’s as shocked as I am by her confession about the anonymous client. That’s against his policy for obvious reasons. She may have compromised the entire investigation, my search for Frankie, and our ongoing hunt for the cabin.
“I’m saying…” Oliver meets my gaze, his wrinkled features cold and blank. “Sometimes direct action is more effective than lawful action. You have resources. Power. Use them.”
“I’m not my father.”
“No, you’re not.”
A chill runs over my scalp. There’s something in his tone, something I’m missing.
He returns to his cooking.
Before I can question him further, movement snaps my gaze to the kitchen window.
Outside, Frankie steps onto the patio, dressed in her running gear.
With summer drawing to a close, she runs the trails every day. I join her when I’m not on the phone.
Other than me, only a few of the guards can keep up with her.
Bending closer to the window, I scrutinize the guards hovering nearby.
Nope. She’ll outrun all of them.
Fuck .
I just came from the gym and still wear my workout clothes. I’m also exhausted and fighting a headache.
Doesn’t stop me from racing out of the kitchen to join her.
“Coming with me?” She stretches her calf.
“Wouldn’t miss it.”
We take off, jogging along the trails through the trees.
Her petite frame moves with power and endurance, her legs pumping furiously, three times as fast to keep up with my long-legged strides.
With the muscled weight she’s gained, her body is stronger and faster than ever, her figure both delicate and resilient.
She’s more beautiful than I’ve ever seen her, and that beauty comes from within.
I love to run with her just to spend time with her, to stare at her like a love-sick fool. But I also appreciate the shared silence, the rhythm of our breaths syncing with the beat of our feet on the earth.
Ten minutes into the run, we round the corner of the dense forest, approaching the quiet side of the shoreline. The ocean waves murmur in the distance. It’s a moment of peace, a rare oasis in the turmoil of our lives.
Before we reach the shore, something breaks the silence. A whirring mechanical sound that quickens my pulse.
“Do you hear that?” I slow my gait, reaching for her arm.
“What is it?” Her eyes widen as she looks around.
“It sounds like—”
The noise grows louder, more insistent, coming from above.
“Take cover!” Stanley shouts.
The guards leap into motion as I lunge, crashing into her and taking her to the ground. We roll off the path into the dense trees, landing with my frame covering her protectively.
The guards rush in, forming a wall around us as the buzzing object falls from the sky and slams onto the trail.
I brace for an explosion that doesn’t come.
“Stay down.” My heart thunders in my chest.
“What is it?” Her breath heats my neck, her body trembling beneath me.
“I don’t know. Just stay still.”
An agonizing minute ticks, ticks, ticks.
“It’s a drone,” Stanley says. “There’s a box attached to it.”
My stomach sinks as I stare down at her, at the wetness blurring her eyes.
“Open it.” I hold her devastated gaze.
The sound of ripping cardboard rings like a death knell.
“Dry ice,” Stanley announces. “And something in a plastic bag.”
Her face crumples.
“Take it to the house. No police.” Turning back to her, I cradle her head and hug her to me. “Can you stand?”
“Yeah.”
The guards carry the box back to the house. We follow them into the kitchen, where Oliver prepares dinner.
His expression empties when he sees the box. “Another one?”
“Delivered by a drone.” I don gloves, my fingers steady despite the dread fisting in my gut.
Then I open the box.
Sickening vapors of déjà vu rise from the dry ice. I pull out a frost-covered plastic bag, set it on the counter, and cut it open.
Not a heart.
Not a hand.
Blue irises stare up at me from a severed pair of eyes.
Frankie makes a strangled sound.
Nausea surges, and saliva fills my mouth as the image of Wolfson’s blue eyes flash in my mind. Eyes that match my own.
I must’ve said his name, because she grips my arm, shaking her head, her voice a whisper of horror. “Sirena.”
Sirena had blue eyes, too.
“There’s a note.” Oliver nods at the box.
Everything inside me recoils. I can’t stomach another photo of my dead son.
Steeling my spine, I reach for it and read the handwritten words aloud. “ But whom to love? To trust and treasure? Who won’t betray us in the end? And who’ll be kind enough to measure our words and deeds as we intend? This is for us, Frankie. It’s all for you and me.”
“Pushkin?” She hugs her waist, looking so scared and alone.
“Yeah.” I remove the gloves and wrap her in my arms, meeting Oliver’s cryptic gaze across the room.
Sometimes direct action is more effective than lawful action.
“No more police.” I square my shoulders. “We’re doing this the Strakh way.”