29. Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Aurora
A couple of hours earlier
Ithrow my backpack onto the bed and yank at the strings to open it. My movements are frantic as I dart between my dresser, walk-in closet, and the bed, grabbing clothes in a chaotic rush, not fully registering what I’m packing or why. I glance down and realize I’m holding hiking boots.
When did I get hiking boots?
I toss them back into the closet and pull on the backpack’s strings with all my strength.
The coarse cords dig into my palm, leaving red, stinging lines.
I pack without thinking, driven only by the urgent need to get out—out of this apartment, away from Sergei.
No. Not away from Sergei, just… away. Because he couldn’t… He wouldn’t…
A nervous laugh breaks through my dry lips at the thought of his reaction to the way I packed my things.
As I hoist the backpack onto my shoulder, its weight nearly topples me over.
The shift in balance jolts me back to a distant memory from elementary school—an argument with my mom.
We fought over something insignificant, I don’t even remember what, and I decided to run away.
But I didn’t make it past the front door.
The thought of the darkness outside, combined with the fear of being alone, made me turn around.
Pounding desperately on the door, I apologized profusely for whatever was probably my fault, begging my mom to let me back in.
Mom.
I crave her voice, her guidance, her advice.
I don’t even care if it comes with her accusatory tone for lying to her for so long.
I’ve become so entangled with Daniel’s investigation that I feel like I’m drowning in my own choices.
I can’t handle this alone. The weight of it all is overwhelming, and the thought of facing it by myself terrifies me.
I drop the backpack with a thud and collapse onto the bed, struggling to process the unthinkable fact that Sergei could have hurt his wife, hurt anyone.
My mind short-circuits. There’s a disconnect between what my eyes saw and what my brain refuses to accept.
One part insists that I’ve seen Alessia’s phone, while the other screams it can’t be true.
Maybe I’ve ingested something, or perhaps the exhaustion from last night and this morning has left me so delirious I’m hallucinating. Maybe it’s an issue with my rods and cones—or whatever those cells are called.
But another smaller part of me wonders, could Daniel have been right?
I need to get out. I need to… My eyes lock on the rug Sergei bought for me.
I envision its softness as a thousand tiny needles pricking me.
I rush over and, with all my strength, yank it up.
I barely manage to lift it when my elbow bumps into my dresser, a sharp crack sounding behind me.
I don’t bother looking as I tug on the rug haphazardly, then hoist it again from the bottom.
The weight is surprising but fitting, a physical echo of the heaviness in my heart.
Sergei has Alessia’s phone. He has it. But he shouldn’t. The person who killed her, the one who hurt her, should have her phone.
Could it be the man I’m… falling for?
The realization hits me like a cold wave.
Oh my god. Is he capable of it? Did he kill his wife?
My heart races as I grapple with the possibility I’ve become one of those women who fall in love with criminals.
I glance at my phone, weighing my next move, then grab my backpack and head for the elevator. As the doors close behind me, I catch a whiff of Sergei’s lingering cologne, and a fresh wave of tears spills from my eyes.
The elevator jolts to a stop before reaching the ground floor. The doors slide open, and Pavel steps in, coming to stand beside me. With his eyes fixed straight ahead, he reaches into his inside pocket, pulls out a napkin, and hands it to me.
“I’m fine,” I lie, but I take the napkin anyway.
“Where you going?” he asks in his usual heavy accent. His eyes linger on the backpack slung over my shoulder.
“Just a girls’ sleepover.” I try to sound upbeat, but my voice falters.
I sense Pavel sees through my lie.
“You need ride?” he asks.
The elevator bounces again, and the doors slide open into the cool lobby. “No, I’m fine,” I insist, starting to step out.
But Pavel grabs my elbow, and I instinctively jerk back. His fingers press into my skin, forcing a wince out of me. I meet his eyes, which flicker between mine, searching for something.
His brows knit together, his expression dark and resolute. “You need ride.” This time, his words are a command, not a question.
“I’m fine,” I repeat again, tugging my arm free from his grip. To my surprise, he lets go. I bolt out of the lobby, heart racing, and dare not look back. I pray the loud thumping I hear is just the frantic beat of my exhausted heart, and not Pavel’s footsteps.
I burst out of the building, allowing myself only a quick glance behind me. In my panic, I don’t notice the person in front of me until I crash into them.
“Oy,” Anton exclaims as I stumble into his arms, gasping for breath. My eyes dart around, searching for any sign of Pavel.
He’s not there.
“Are you okay?” Anton’s voice is laced with concern as he holds me steady.
I struggle to catch my breath and glance over my shoulder. “I think so.”
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Anton says as he peers inside the building, trying to discern what has me so spooked.
“I’m fine,” I insist, though the words feel like ash in my mouth. Each time I say them, they taste more like poison on my lips. “I’m just late.”
Anton’s smile remains as he offers, “Need a ride?”
I nearly scream. Is it Groundhog Day? “No, I think I’ll just use a rideshare,” I say, trying to step out of his grasp.
“Why not?” he asks, nodding toward his car parked right in front of the building. “I just got here. I’m off this evening, and I don’t have any plans.”
“I don’t want to trouble you.” I take a step back.
His smile falters for a moment. “You sure?”
“My ride is already here.” I hold up my phone and point to the corner, hoping Anton won’t follow me to check if I’m lying. Then I turn and quickly walk away, actually ordering the rideshare.
Istep out of the car and check my phone again.
A twinge of guilt flickers within me for using the GPS sharing feature that Layla and I promised to reserve only for emergencies.
But I’m desperate to talk to someone, to process what I discovered in Sergei’s office.
And this definitely feels like an emergency.
Layla’s location leads me to an upscale downtown restaurant. I make my way through the heavy glass doors and approach the hostess stand.
“May I help you?” she asks, her polite tone barely masking her condescension.
“I think my friend might be here,” I say, glancing at my phone.
“Well, this is a reservation-only place,” she replies, eyeing my jeans, sneakers, and dark blue hoodie. “And there’s a dress code.”
“I don’t need to go in. I just—” I peer past her into the restaurant and spot Layla laughing at a table. Is her hair a different color? I call out for her, my voice urgent.
When she finally hears me, her gaze shifts to me.
Then, she sets her wine glass on the table, leans in to whisper something to the person across from her, before quickly walking over.
Her sage overalls, cinched at the waist with a sleek yellow-gold belt, pair perfectly with matching hoop earrings. She looks absolutely stunning.
“What are you doing here?” she asks, pulling me outside by my arm.
“You dyed your hair?” I ask, taken aback by the vibrant red. I reach out instinctively, but she pulls away.
“No.” She runs her hand through her hair to smooth it down. “What are you doing here?” she repeats.
“I wanted to see you. I’m sorry,” I say, voice trembling.
Layla glances back into the restaurant before turning toward me, concern written on her face. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s about Sergei. I…” My voice falters as I search for the right words. “I found his dead wife’s phone in his study,” I whisper, struggling to breathe.
Layla raises an eyebrow, questioning why this matters.
I cast a glance over my shoulder before explaining, “Her phone was with her when she was killed. It was presumedly taken by her killer.”
Layla sighs, her eyes flaming with exasperation. “Aurora, is Sergei someone who would keep that lying around?”
My brows curl down. I hadn’t considered that.
He’s intelligent—he must be, to have achieved such success with his business.
Of course he wouldn’t have left it there on purpose.
Maybe if he were in a rush—but he wouldn’t hold on to such incriminating evidence for months, just waiting for someone to find it.
“Roxanne?” a middle-aged man calls out as he steps out of the restaurant. He’s heavyset, with a round face and a mop of red hair. “Is everything all right?”
“Yes, sweetie. My friend needed to speak with me. I’ll be right inside,” Layla replies, her tone rehearsed—gentle yet edged with a formality I’ve never heard from her before.
The man nods and steps back into the restaurant.
“Why is he calling you Roxanne? Who is that?” I ask, my confusion growing.
Layla shakes her head slowly, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath.
“Is this some kind of role play? Is he your date? He’s a bit older than your usual type. Connor will be devastated to hear this,” I try to joke.
She remains silent.
I draw my eyebrows together and clear my throat. “Layla, what’s going on?”
She drops her head, now staring at her shoes. When she looks back at me, her expression is serious. “This is my job,” she finally says.
“What do you mean, this is your job?” I ask, though a part of me is already starting to piece together the last few months. “Are you… like an escort?” A nervous laugh breaks through my chest.
“We prefer working girl or call girl, but yes,” she replies.
I take a half-step back, my eyes widening. “You’re kidding.” I blink rapidly as I feel my heart sinking low in my chest. My best friend is a call girl. And she didn’t tell me.