Chapter Thirty-Six
Lauren
“Mommy!” Hannah launches herself into my arms.
“Hey, baby,” I say, brushing away her dark curls so I can plant a kiss on her cheek. “How was your day?”
“I painted a picture!”
“That’s amazing, honey! You’ll have to show me when we get home. Is it in your bag?”
Hannah nods, a cheeky grin rounding out her small cheeks.
She looks almost exactly like me, brunette hair, the same nose and pointed chin, except for her eyes.
She clearly has her father’s sharp, striking gaze.
I stare at them, like I’m staring at her father.
They’re so hauntingly blue, a constant reminder of what I lost four years ago.
“Yep!” she says, continuing our conversation. “But I got paint all over my T-shirt. Miss Riley had to wash it for me. She said that I’m an artist, like Van Goat.”
“Van Gogh, baby.” I smile, setting her back down on the ground. “Come on, let’s get out of here.” I hold out my hand and she encases her tiny one in mine as we leave preschool together.
She’s enjoying herself. Such a happy-go-lucky child.
Miss Riley told me last week that she is becoming a class favorite, everybody wanting to be her friend. She says that there’s something charismatic about her, and it made my heart skip a beat. Sounds a lot like her daddy, sweeping everybody off their feet just by being in the room.
The preschool is close to our apartment so we sometimes walk.
It’s a simple routine. A safe routine. I drop her off in the morning, kiss her goodbye and catch the MARTA into the city for work.
It took a while for me to get back into the swing of things after Nikolai’s death, but I had no choice.
Life goes on and I have the world’s most perfect baby girl to raise.
I work at a new investment firm managing portfolios like I always have, but this time it’s different. Better. I don’t have my father to answer to anymore.
We arrive back at our apartment. Hannah kicks off her shoes and rushes into her room to play with her dolls, while I head to the kitchen to prepare dinner.
Between chopping veggies, I’m picking up my phone, replying to a client messages, when I see a notification ping through from the AJC Newspaper.
I almost drop my phone when I see that the article is about Charles Watson.
I bring up the article, forgetting the pasta cooking on the stove for a second.
After nearly four years of trials and court hearings, the justice system has finally decided my father’s fate.
Charles Watson has been sentenced to serve twenty-five years behind bars for conspiracy, fraud, and allegedly his indirect involvement in several murders, including my mother’s.
I scan more of the article, finding a photograph of his mugshot.
Muscle memory tenses me, making it feel like I’m back at Watson & Co. dealing with him again.
I have to remind myself that I’m safe.
That it’s all over.
It took some courage, but I handed the USB in. I didn’t want to at first because it was all I had left of Nikolai, but I needed to do what was necessary. Ironically, the day after handing it in, I went into labor with Hannah.
“Look what I did with Barbie’s hair, mommy!”
I turn, my heart melting even though it looks like she’s about to rip all of the hair from the doll. “Looks great, baby.”
The smile lingers on my face, even after I set down the phone and return to cooking. Hannah is my life now, and I couldn’t have asked for anything better. She’s perfect in every possible way, and it’s not even maternal bias talking.
But there isn’t a single day when I don’t think of the day I lost her father.
The only reason we’re safe now is his sacrifice.
It stings that Aslanov got away with everything he’s done, living freely somewhere in the underbelly of Atlanta without a care in the world.
I have to remind myself often to let it go, for Hannah’s sake.
Things are in the past for a reason.
I tell myself that I have moved on, that I’ve come far from where I was four years ago, but I know I haven’t. Not really.
Grief never goes away.
We just get used to it with time.
I open up the cupboard, searching for the next ingredient. “Oh, no. Mommy forgot the pasta sauce.” Huffing, I turn off the stove and grab my jacket from the dining room chair. “Come with me, baby. Let’s go and grab some sauce together.”
“But I want to play with my dolls.”
“They’re not going anywhere, sweetheart. It’s just a quick trip to the grocery store.” I extend a hand, wiggling my fingers.
Hannah hops up from the carpet as I grab her jacket, zipping it up for her.
I know that she’s only four and can’t be left alone in the apartment, but I still can’t imagine her being alone at eighteen.
She’s the only family I have left. Even dropping her off at preschool in the morning plants nerves in my stomach.
I don’t like being apart from her, always scared of what might happen while I’m gone.
I remind myself that I’m just being paranoid, still shaken by the trauma, but that doesn’t make the anxious thoughts go away.
They will probably live with me forever, and I’ll likely end up being one of those overprotective mothers who won’t let their daughter stray more than two feet away from them.
You need therapy, Lauren.
You can’t let your daughter suffer the consequences of your past.
Maybe I do need therapy. When you have been exposed to the darkest dealings of the Bratva, have been tied up to a chair by your own father, have had a gun held to your skull, your mind tends to wander to dark places...
These past four years, I have worked a lot on healing myself.
Journaling and meditation seem to be the most helpful.
Maybe there is hope. Maybe this is what I’ve been placed on this planet for.
To guard the legacy of the man I once loved.
To guard the flame we once had, to keep it safe deep inside my heart.
And to give our baby girl the best possible start in life.
We exit the apartment building, the evening air still retaining some warmth even though fall is right around the corner. I turn off the avenue with Hannah as she chats about her dolls.
That’s when I see the car.
A black, imposing SUV. The windows are tinted, the body sleek like it has just been polished. Something shifts in the air.
I falter in my step, staring at the SUV. There’s a pinch in my gut telling me that it isn’t just some random car on the street. Goosebumps start to pepper my skin and chills run down my spine despite the warm air. My senses are suddenly screaming at me.
Something’s not right.
“What is it, mommy?” Hannah immediately senses my unease. She always does. It’s like she’s become hypervigilant with the outside world before she was even born. I wonder if she gets that from her father.
“Nothing, baby,” I answer, trying to keep my tone light.
I want to walk on and force my mind to stop screaming at me but I can’t. Something is stopping me and my feet remain planted on the sidewalk. I narrow my eyes, trying to see who the driver is.
Damn those tinted windows.
I look around the street. Nothing seems out of the ordinary. There are a few other parked cars, but none of them compare to this. Residents in this neighborhood don’t own expensive cars like this one.
Suddenly, a voice in my head tells me to go back. To get inside. It’s almost as clear as if someone were talking to me.
After weighing pasta sauce against Hannah’s safety, I steer her back around and we head back towards the apartment. I don’t look back at the car.
“Mommy. What about the pasta sauce?”
“It’s okay, baby. I just remembered that I have some in the cupboard.”
“But you already looked in there.”
I don’t reply, beelining for the door. This doesn’t feel right. It’s like I’ve seen that car before, years ago.
Before Hannah was born.
We reach the step leading back up to the apartment building, but then I hear a car door popping open.
The sound echoes through the quiet street like a gunshot, making my heart slam against my ribs.
With curiosity getting the better of me, I turn around to see who is driving the vehicle… and my feet turn to ice.
My mouth falls open.
Time slows down.
Hannah’s voice asking "Mommy, what’s wrong?" sounds like it’s coming from underwater, a million miles away.
And all of the air leaves my lungs upon seeing the figure that stands there.
End of Part 1.