43. Mara
43
MARA
B ulbs flash and reporters shout when Darius pulls our blacked-out SUV to the curb at the front of the Chrysler building.
“Go down the side. We can enter via the service entrance.”
He nods his approval of Riley’s suggestion before slowly maneuvering us through a swarm of paparazzi striving to capture the arrival of Ark’s guests.
Regretfully, over half a dozen follow us down the alleyway.
I cuss softly when Darius says, “They recognize the tags.”
“I’ll distract them.”
I try to stop Riley from exiting, panicked about the questions she could face, but she slips out before I can.
As expected, the press swarms her like bees at a hive. Mercifully, they question her about her connection to Wilfred Iwona and her prediction about her brother’s impending engagement more than her personal life.
The hard-hitting questions don’t come until after Tillie and I have slipped out the back of the SUV and snuck through the heavily guarded side entrance door.
“Stay with Riley,” I order Darius, bossing him around as if he works for me.
He follows my command without protest. “Yes, ma’am.”
With the party occurring in the ballroom in the left half of the building, our walk to the elevator is relatively quiet. We encounter only one person, and she seems to know me better than Arkadiy.
My pulse thumps in my ears when the middle-aged woman we just bypassed asks, “Miskaela, is that you?”
After tugging Tillie under my arm, I continue for the elevator, my steps more a jog.
“I haven’t seen you in years,” my accoster continues, incapable of backing down even with me making it obvious I am not who she thinks I am.
Miskaela died years ago.
I am now Mara, a woman who will do anything to protect her child.
As I struggle to breathe through my panic, the stranger continues her trip down memory lane while I jab at the elevator call button, praying for it to hurry up. “What was it? Your twelfth birthday party, right? You had the jumping castle and a magician. All the children in the street were in awe.”
“You had a jumping castle for your twelfth birthday?” Tillie whispers, doubling the output of my heart. “I thought you said you didn’t have any parties when you were a child.”
With my cover blown and the thudding steps of my haggler announcing she will follow us to the end of Earth if it is the only way she will get answers, I lower my eyes to Tillie and murmur, “I said I didn’t have any memorable parties. That’s different from not having one.”
Dr. Babkin’s grooming commenced at my tenth birthday party. My father blocked the only exit of his office two short years later.
I hit Tillie with a pleading look for us to leave our conversation until we’re not under scrutiny of someone who could irreparably scar her before I spin to face the voice surfacing the skeletons of my past faster than I forced Ark’s out of their hiding spot last week.
My scold is nowhere near as burning when I recognize the kind eyes of the lady approaching us. Mrs. Bombae was the neighborhood grandmother. If it wasn’t for her guidance and understanding, I doubt I would have ever had the courage to pack my bags and run.
I confessed to her before anyone else that I thought I might have been pregnant, and although the next person I told handed me a ton of repercussions I could have never anticipated, Mrs. Bombae was not at fault for that. She thought my parents were the good Christian people her and her husband were.
No one could have predicted how evil their blood runs.
My voice rattles with nerves when I say, “Mrs. Bombae… H-hello.”
She smiles, pleased I remember her, before her glistening eyes lower to Tillie. “Hello, dear. Who do we have here?”
“This is Matilda.” I tug Tillie in close like we’re not almost the same height before finalizing my introduction. “My-my daughter.”
“Daughter?” Shock registers but she is quick to mask it with delight. “How lovely. She looks just like you, Miskaela.” She bobs down to meet Tillie eye-to-eye like she did when I was her age. “Do you think you might play soccer like your mother? Did she tell you how she was almost scouted by a famous team all the way from Australia?”
“She did.” Tillie nods so fast that she makes me dizzy and almost sends the wetness in her eyes toppling down her cheeks. “That’s where she got my name from. She said since she couldn’t play for the Matildas, she’d raise one.”
Mrs. Bombae giggles. “That’s such a lovely story, Matilda. Thank you so much for sharing it with me.”
She stares and stares and stares until my stomach’s grumble pulls her from her thoughts.
“The Palkova genes are strong with this one, Miskaela… extremely strong.” After another lengthy stare, she returns her focus to Tillie. “How old are you, dear?”
“I’m t?—”
“She just t-turned eight.” I pull Tillie in tighter, my clutch almost cruel. “She often f-forgets she just had a birthday, so she says sh-she’s turning eight. But she’s eight now. Just turned eight.”
I’m blubbering, but it can’t be helped. I know the look she is giving me. It is the same one my mother gave me after taking in the positive pregnancy test she bought me.
She thinks she is looking at my father’s child instead of his grandchild.
“We ne-need to go. It was lovely seeing you again,” I lie.
We make it four steps away before a confused whisper stops me. “If Matilda and you are the reason your father is visiting Myasnikov, why wouldn’t he just say that?”
Bile burns the back of my throat as I force words through the fear caked there. “My father is here?”
She nods gently. Confusion is all over her face. “I saw him last week. Friday afternoon in this very lobby. I assumed he was here on business, but when I approached him, he said his visit was personal and that he would appreciate it if I kept my knowledge of it on the down-low.”
I feel sick, incredibly ill. The Chrysler building is only blocks from Tillie’s school.
The monster from my childhood was within walking distance of my daughter.
Oh my god, how could I have been so reckless?
I swore to protect my daughter, and I failed.
Mrs. Bombae’s dainty laugh pulls me from my alarmed state. “He was so secretive he made me promise that I wouldn’t tell your mother that I had seen him. I told him he’d have to buy me an extremely expensive steak for me to even consider his request.” Her pinched brows make her wrinkles more noticeable. “I was meant to have dinner with him on Monday. He never showed up.”
“Because he’s missing. Presumed dead.”
The brunette who rushed to Ark’s side last week joins our conversation. She seems to know me, and she doesn’t appear to be a fan of mine.
“The circumstances of his disappearance are eerily similar to the disappearance of a man six years ago.” Her eyes drop to Tillie for half a second before they return to my face. They’re not as cruel now but extremely unhinged. “Perhaps you’ve heard of him.” There’s no remorse in her eyes, no hesitation on her face. With two short sentences, she hacks my confidence down to a penance like I’m the criminal. “Luba Babkin. Does his name ring a bell?”
Tillie attempts to bite at the bait she’s dangling in front of me, so I speak quickly and clearly. “I have heard of him, but I am under no obligation to announce the reason as to why my name is associated with his, Ms…”
“Detective.” She flashes her credentials too fast for me to take in. “Detective Sanya Pascall from Trudny PD.”
The fact she is a police officer strips the last of my understanding. She knows my rights as a victim, yet she is attempting to exploit them in public.
“If you have questions in regard to my relationship with Dr. Babkin, I suggest you contact a victim advocacy lawyer before approaching me again.”
My steps are thwarted for the second time when she says, “And your father? Who should I contact about his disappearance slash murder? You… or your billionaire boyfriend rich enough to cover for you?”
I’m too stunned by her accusation to remain quiet. “I had nothing to do with my father’s disappearance?—”
“So you’re saying it was him?” Detective Pascall nudges her head to an image announcing whose birthday is being celebrated today.
“No. Ark would never…” My words trail off when I recall Ark’s reaction to finding out I had been raped.
I’m going to track down that fuck and make him regret the day he laid eyes on you.
I’m going to kill him.
Then there were his other multiple promises of protection as our wonderfully beautiful twenty-four hours of reprieve from the world went on.
He swore he’d never let anyone hurt me again. That he would do everything in his power to keep Tillie and me safe.
Would that have included murder?
I want to say no, but the evidence is worrying.
Scarcely breathing, I sling my eyes to Mrs. Bombae, as desperate to interrogate her as Detective Pascall is to interrogate me. Her timeline of my father’s last known movements is damning. It could lead to a conviction if handed to the wrong person.
Before I can utter a syllable, the elevator doors I begged to miraculously open only minutes ago finally do, exposing both the man of the hour and the man I am almost certain maimed for me.