13. Sofia #2
I study him. He’s easy to talk to. Too easy, maybe.
There’s a looseness to him that makes me want to ask more.
A dangerous temptation. I know better than to mistake friendliness for innocence, especially in this family, but compared to Damir’s silent storms and Mikhail’s polite watchfulness, Grigori feels like an open window.
So naturally, I walk straight toward it.
“My uncle told me Damir killed his wife,” I say.
Grigori’s smile disappears. For one second, the room becomes colder than the corridor outside. I regret the question immediately, which is annoying because regret usually waits until after I have made things worse.
Grigori straightens from the doorframe. “Maksim likes company in the afternoons,” he says. The change is so abrupt it feels like a door slamming.
“Grigori.”
“If you want to see him, tell Marina. She will bring you.”
“You’re not going to answer?”
“No.”
“At least you’re honest again.”
His eyes meet mine. There’s no humor in them now. “Some doors in this house are locked for a reason, Sofia.”
My stomach tightens. “And if I want the key?”
“Then be careful who you ask.” His voice softens slightly, but not enough to make it comforting. “And be more careful what you do with it if someone gives it to you.”
Before I can reply, he turns and leaves.
I stand alone in the little sitting room, surrounded by toy soldiers and the aftermath of a cushion dragon war, with my heart beating too fast.
So. That question has teeth.
Good to know.
For approximately ten minutes, I try to make sensible choices. This is not one of my talents, but I do make an effort.
I go back into the corridor. I pass one guard, then another. I consider returning to my room, calling Anya again, or finding Marina and asking whether there is a less emotionally complicated part of the house I can haunt.
Then I see a door at the end of the west hall. Dark wood. Half-closed. No guard directly outside. Which is obviously suspicious, but also inviting.
This is how women in gothic novels die, I remind myself.
Then again, women in gothic novels rarely have the survival advantage of being extremely irritated.
I move toward the door. The hallway is quiet. Too quiet. I glance over my shoulder once, see no one, and push the door open.
It’s a library. Or a study.
A real one, not a decorative room for men to pretend they read.
The walls are lined with books from floor to ceiling, dark shelves, old leather bindings, files stacked neatly on a wide desk near the windows.
There’s a fireplace on one side, unlit, and a large map of the city mounted on the wall opposite.
Several routes are marked in red and black thread.
That seems ominous.
Also useful.
I step inside and close the door behind me.
I know I shouldn’t be here. That’s part of the appeal.
The room smells like Damir. Not obviously. Not cologne. Something quieter. Leather, paper, smoke, the faint trace of him in the air because this is clearly his space. His desk. His chair. His books. His secrets.
I walk to the shelves first, because shelves are safe and desks are obvious. The books are in Russian, English, French. History, law, finance, military strategy, poetry. That last one surprises me enough that I pull out the slim volume and open it.
A pressed flower falls out, and I freeze. It’s dry, brittle, nearly colorless with age. Something about it feels too intimate to touch.
I put it back exactly where I found it.
Then I go to the desk, because apparently I am committed to my bad decisions.
The top is almost painfully organized. Papers aligned, pens placed in a leather tray, one small framed photograph turned slightly away from the chair. I hesitate before reaching for it.
Don’t, I tell myself.
I reach for it.
The photograph is old. A younger Damir stands beside a woman in a pale dress, dark-haired, beautiful in an elegant, distant way. She is not smiling. Neither is he. His hand rests lightly at her back, formal more than affectionate.
His wife.
The murdered wife.
I stare at her face, trying to read a story from one photograph because apparently that is what desperate wives do in cliff houses.
She gives me nothing.
A noise sounds behind me, not too loud. Just the soft click of the door closing.
I go still.
Then slowly, very slowly, I turn.
Damir stands between me and the exit. Black shirt today, sleeves rolled to the forearms, bandage still wrapped around his palm. His face is calm. Too calm.
My stomach drops.
He looks at the photograph in my hand. Then at me.
“I can explain,” I say.
His eyes lift to mine. “Can you?”
“No. But I thought starting with confidence might help.”
He doesn’t move. “Were you looking for something specific,” he asks, “or are you committing crimes recreationally now?”
I set the photograph down carefully. “Is snooping a crime?”
“In my study, yes.”
“Seems biased.”
“Sofia.”
My name in his voice should not affect me, but it does. It rolls through the room, low and warning, and my body reacts before my pride can stop it.
I lift my chin. “Maybe if people in this house answered questions, I wouldn’t have to wander into forbidden rooms.”
“This is not forbidden.”
“Really?”
“No.” His gaze flicks over me. “But you knew you should not be here.”
That is annoyingly accurate.
“I was exploring.”
“You were searching.”
“For a library.”
“You found my desk.”
“It was on the way.”
“To what?”
“Knowledge.”
A muscle moves in his jaw. Not anger, exactly. Something sharper.
“Don’t play with me,” he says.
My pulse picks up. “I’m not playing.”
“No,” he says, stepping forward. “You are digging.”
I take one step back. Mistake.
His eyes drop to the movement. I keep backing up anyway, because the space between us has changed, tightened, charged. I hit the wall beside the bookcase sooner than expected.
Excellent. Wonderful. Strategic retreat failed by architecture.
Damir keeps coming until he’s close enough that I have to tilt my head back to look at him. He places one hand on the wall beside my face. Not touching me. Trapping me anyway.
“Did you enjoy interrogating Grigori?” he asks.
My stomach flips. So he knows that too.
“Your house has terrible privacy.”
“My house has excellent security.”
“Same horror, different branding.”