Chapter Forty
Stella
Diana’s sudden appearance in my doorway with a covered tray jolts me from my morning yoga stretches.
“I thought I’d join you for breakfast.” Diana’s polished Russian accent carries an undercurrent I can’t quite read. She sets the tray down carefully, her diamond tennis bracelet catching the light.
“Where’s Imelda?” I rise from my mat, watching Diana arrange the plates with precision.
“Taking care of other matters.” She lifts the silver covers to reveal eggs, rye toast and orange juice. “I thought we could chat.”
I frown. After yesterday’s cryptic behavior around my food, Diana’s presence with my meal feels less like courtesy and more like intervention.
“Oh. Is everything okay?” I ask, noting how Diana’s fingers tighten slightly on the handle of the jug. I study her controlled movements, the way she avoids direct eye contact while arranging everything. “This is very kind of you, just… unexpected.”
“Sometimes unexpected changes are necessary.” Diana finally meets my gaze, her dark eyes carrying the same intensity as her brother’s. “Especially when certain… concerns arise.”
The weight of unspoken warnings hangs between us. I open my mouth to press further, but Diana smoothly cuts me off by passing a glass of orange juice.
“Shall we eat while it’s hot?”
“Sure.” I pick at the perfectly poached eggs, slanting a look at her. The resemblance to Aleksei is uncanny.
“Imelda has been dismissed,” Diana states out of the blue, adjusting her pearl necklace. “There were… irregularities with her service that couldn’t be overlooked.”
My fork freezes halfway to my mouth. “Dismissed? But she’s been here for years, hasn’t she?”
“Length of service doesn’t excuse betrayal.” Diana’s eyes narrow slightly. “From now on, I’ll personally oversee your meals. You are not to touch a scrap of food unless I have given it to you.”
“What?” I say sharply. “Isn’t that a bit extreme? What if I want a pack of crisps?”
“You shouldn’t be eating crisps,” she responds. “Don’t even think about trying it. The biomarker device records everything.”
I glance down at the sleek band on my wrist, its constant monitoring suddenly feeling more suffocating.
“Trust me, it’s for your own good,” she says like she’s trying to assure me. She reaches for her OJ and takes a sip, not taking her eyes off me.
“I’m not a child,” I mutter. “I know how to feed myself.”
“This isn’t about your judgment, Stella.” Diana’s tone softens slightly. “It’s about ensuring the best possible environment for the baby. Surely you understand that?”
I do understand — that’s what makes this so frustrating. But does it have to be so extreme?
I take a mouthful of egg. Diana’s hawk-like gaze follows every bite I take. The eggs turn to sawdust in my mouth under her scrutiny. I force myself to chew and swallow mechanically, hyper-aware of her monitoring me.
“The yolks contain essential nutrients,” she points out when I hesitate over the runny center. Her manicured finger taps the edge of my plate. “Eat.”
I comply, but my stomach churns with each supervised mouthful. The silence stretches between us, broken only by the soft clink of silverware. Diana maintains her rigid posture, back straight as a ballet dancer’s, while I hunch over my plate like a prisoner at mess hall.
“Good.” She nods with clinical satisfaction as I finish the last bite of toast. “I’ll return at lunch.”
Rising gracefully, Diana gathers the dishes onto the tray, and leaves. The door closes behind her with a soft click.
I slump in my chair, suddenly feeling exhausted. It’s only been a few minutes since she left, but the quiet of the room is already pressing in around me.
I wrap my arms around myself, missing Hannah’s easy laughter, the bustle of the office, even the annoyance of rush hour traffic. Anything would be better than this padded prison where even my meals require supervision.
Anything except him , that is.
It’s been a while since I saw Aleksei, and although I keep trying to convince myself that I’m relieved, a part of me is not.
“Stupid girl.” Boyana is unforgiving. “You know you want him.”
“Ugh!” I say out loud, shoving my chair from the breakfast table and standing.
I hate it when my sister says things I don’t want to hear.
But I can’t help myself. My traitorous mind keeps replaying that damn badminton game.
Aleksei’s rare smile as he lobbed the shuttlecock.
The boy’s delighted shrieks echoing across the lawn.
“This is ridiculous,” I grumble, heading over to the bookshelf and choosing the most boring book from the stack Aleksei provided. A few chapters of neuroscience should kill any lingering romantic notions.
Synapses, neural pathways, adhesion molecules, blah blah blah…
Beside me, the laptop’s red power light blinks 11:56 am. Four minutes until my daily online window. I twist the biomarker bracelet, the smooth metal warm from my agitated fidgeting.
“Screw it.” I push the book aside and turn to my screen, opening up the mailbox.
There’s a string of junk mail, some newsletters I subscribe to, and a payment notification for my Kindle subscription.
Apart from that, nada . Still nothing from Hannah, or even my brother — though I guess I told them not to contact me.
The sense of isolation weighs down on me.
“No social media,” I remind myself aloud, hovering over the browser. I contemplate scrolling through more baby sites, but I’m getting tired of staring at images of how my uterus is expanding.
I open Google and, on impulse, type Fermont. I half expect the usual page restrictions, but somehow, my search yields results. Perhaps it’s because he was a doctor. My dad’s name pops up several items down the page. A news article from his death.
Doctor Dies in Single-Car Crash
I stare at the headline, remembering my mother’s hysterical words. He was murdered. She was so certain of it. But the police concluded it was an accident and the case was closed.
I click through page after page of auto-generated obituaries. Twenty-three search results — eighteen redundant. The Los Angeles Times article says he swerved to avoid a coyote. Two paragraphs. Three mentions of his “devoted family”.
My fingers dig into the mouse. “That’s it?” I hiss at the screen. “Coyote. What freaking coyote?”
The police report link winks at me from Dad’s professional association page. Two clicks. Password protected. I slam the laptop shut hard enough to rattle the coffee mug.
My thumbnail picks at the edge of the biomarker bracelet. Through the window, sunlight glints off the swimming pool. Mom’s screams that night replay in my skull — They did this, they killed him! But the police just handed me a business card for grief counseling.
The laptop hums. I flip it open again, jamming my thumbnail against the fingerprint scanner until it beeps angrily. Google Images. Years-old clinic photos of Dad in a lab coat. Then, an image from some ambulance chaser’s blog.
Mangled steel wrapped around a telephone pole. Glass glittering like snowfall across asphalt.
My chest tightens, and I close the tab.
This feels like torture. All these painful memories, with no clear answer. Maybe Mom was right. Maybe he really was murdered and someone is trying to hide it.
I press my forehead against the cool laptop screen, breathing through the tightness in my chest. “Tell me I’m not losing my mind, Boyana.”
“Always were bonkers,” Boyana’s breezy voice floats through my thoughts, “but that’s why I like you.”
A broken laugh escapes as I swipe at tears with my knuckles. I stare at the browser’s lingering search tabs — accident reports overlapping one another until the pages start to merge into a blur.
I’m tired of dead ends. Tired of feeling like I’m facing this all alone. But Mom’s words continue to nag at me, haunting me like ghosts of the past.
Murder.
Can it be true?
An idea begins to form. What if…
Hannah. I bite my lip. Junior secret service agent Hannah.
Boyana’s voice nags from behind my sternum. “Involving her could get you both in trouble.”
I dig my nails into my palm. I’m getting paranoid. Aleksei is OCD about my health, because of the baby. But he won’t do anything to Hannah or me if he finds out I’ve been trying to find out about my father’s death. What harm could it do?
I think of my burner phone tucked in my sock drawer, then glance at the time.
1.58 pm. Too early to call now — someone might interrupt us.
Besides, I need to collect my thoughts. Figure out what to tell her.
Hannah may be my best friend, but I’ve never discussed my father’s death with her, beyond telling her he’d died in a car accident.
“She’ll think you’re nuts, too,” says Boyana.
I huff out a sigh. Maybe I am nuts. But what if Mom was right and the truth stays hidden forever? My father’s murderer could be walking around out there, unpunished.
The door handle jiggles.
I jerk up straight in my seat, trying not to look guilty as Imelda — no, Diana — enters with lunch tray in hand.
“Hungry?” she asks.
I nod, not trusting my voice.
I’ll call Hannah tomorrow, and run everything by her. Until then, I’ll bide my time and pretend to be a good little broodmare.
But Hannah will help me get to the bottom of this.
I just know it.