6. Deniz
Chapter 6
Deniz
T he bitter wind bites at my cheeks as I stare down at my phone. Through the screen, I watch Clara as she boxes up a few of her items—some clothes, bedding, a few keepsakes. The rest of her belongings stay put.
In the days since I agreed to Clara’s blackmail , we’ve gone back and forth about logistics. There are a shocking amount of things to discuss in a contractual relationship. Where to live, how long to wait to propose, where her driver will reside. Not to mention the long and arduous process of getting the council—The Syndicate’s version of a board of directors—to approve the arrangement. None of this is made easier by the constant, unending tightness in my chest.
I spend most of my time outside of work wondering if I’m the predator or the prey, and if it even matters anymore. I knew forcing myself into The Syndicate would present a formidable challenge, but I’ve never felt so thrown off balance before. I’m usually five steps ahead of the person I’m sparring against, but even in our short time together, it’s clear Clara and I will constantly be clawing to stay in control.
As we negotiated our relationship, the only things I wouldn’ t compromise on were my involvement in and knowledge of The Syndicate’s operations and Clara living in my home. Her little extortion stunt actually helped me with the former. If we had merely been dating, my interest in The Syndicate may have been suspicious, but it’s natural for someone to be curious about the entity controlling their entire future. As for our living situation…well, I need Clara under my roof. I could say it’s because it’s far easier for me to keep an eye on her there, but there’s some other current demanding I keep her close.
I admit that I was temporarily entranced by her charm at the restaurant. But now, I know that if this opportunity slips through my fingers, I’ll never forgive myself. I tuck my phone back into my pocket, content that Clara will be tied up packing for the time being.
The wind is harsh today, whipping flower petals, dried leaves, and blades of freshly cut grass around the headstones. I stand at the foot of my brother’s grave and let myself succumb to the heaviness in my limbs, the crushing sensation in my chest.
Kerem ?imsek . Loved and loving son and brother. Ruhuna fatiha .
I couldn’t include his age or the date of his death when we buried him. If my mother hadn’t been so devastated, so numb with pain, I think she would have fought me on it. But it took me months to falsify records of Kerem’s death, to make it seem like he died in a car accident months before the explosion in Türkiye. I couldn’t have his headstone contradicting the evidence.
There are weeds growing among the flowers planted on top of his resting place, and I kneel on the stone surrounding the small garden to pluck them out. Primrose and winter jasmine bloom brightly despite the weather, their soft yellow hues standing in stark contrast to the reds and greens of holiday wreaths and poinsettias.
The brightness is appropriate for Kerem. He was always so full of light and energy, bouncing around like his body couldn’t contain his soul. My parents worried that having a brother fourteen years his senior would make him grow up too fast, but it was almost the opposite. He had someone to learn from, to catch him when he fell. Our parents showered us with love and affection, but they were also strict in their rules. Having another adult who loved him gently, who allowed him to make the mistakes of youth without serious consequence, let him grow up slowly.
I shift around the stone, remembering the night he climbed out through his bedroom window at nearly two o’clock in the morning. I was surprised when he didn’t tell me he was sneaking off in the first place—he usually trusted me with small secrets—so I waited up for him.
He was sixteen, and I was nearly thirty, but I spent a lot of time at home helping my aging parents handle their teenager. So when he slipped back through the window, he didn’t seem all that surprised to see me.
“So you don’t trust your big brother anymore?” I asked as he sat down on the bed. He didn’t smell like liquor, which I was thankful for. There’s no way he could take a shower and wash off the smell without waking up our parents. He did, though, smell like too much of my cologne.
“Don’t do that,” he said, his voice cracking as he tried to whisper. He shifted uncomfortably, rubbing the back of his neck. “I didn’t think you’d let me go.”
I swept his hair out of his face as he avoided eye contact. I didn’t sneak out when I was his age, but that’s because my parents put an undeniable fear of death—or worse—in me. Kerem had someone to act as a buffer.
“You’ re allowed to make your own decisions, even if I think they’re bad ones,” I said, letting his too-long hair flop back into his eyes. “Even if it’s a mistake, I’ll always be on your side. And unless what you’re doing is dangerous, I won’t stop you.”
He cleared his throat a few times, and I wondered what kind of mistakes he made tonight. If they were simple stories that would one day turn into funny memories, like my friends and I had in college. I wanted him to experience those, to live his childhood as long as he could. What the world offered after you grew up was much more grim.
“Wish you would have told me that earlier,” he muttered, sliding further back onto his bed. “Maybe I wouldn’t have had to walk home six miles.”
He loosened up after that, laughing quietly about how his friends wanted to go to a bonfire party at the beach, but he knew he’d get caught if our parents smelled the smoke on his clothes. He and his friends apparently “borrowed” one of their older sister’s cars and drove out to The Grove. They met up with girls from his class, the reason for the overbearing cologne.
He was a kid, participating in normal teenage rebellion, kissing girls in the back of movie theaters and buying coffee he hated the taste of. He had all the youthful irreverence and mischievousness I envied, and yet I couldn’t have been more happy to see him smile.
The next morning when he couldn’t stop yawning at the breakfast table, I covered for him when our father scolded him.
Despite the cold, sweat dots my forehead as I finish pulling the last of the weeds. I remove a bottle from my jacket pocket and pour the water over the flowers. I know the gardeners are diligent about watering Kerem’s grave—I pay them to be—but it is my responsibility. To show him that he is remembered. That his absence is mourned, and his death will not go unavenged.
I’m one step closer to learning who lit the fire that put my brother in this grave. Clara has let me in. She doesn’t trust me, but she’ll soften eventually. How can she not, when I could see the flash of guilt in her eyes when she forced my hand into this relationship? In the end, I’ll have the access I need and the resources at my disposal to hunt down whoever ordered Lucia’s death. And then, when I finally end the lives of everyone involved in my brother's death, maybe Kerem can truly rest, and only flowers will bloom on his grave.