Chapter Twenty-Eight
Mirabel
I push the door of The Copper Kettle open, and the familiar scent of coffee washes over me—rich and comforting.
This place, with its bright plastic chairs and colorful walls, has been my escape for years. My mandatory day-off breakfast, a ritual I’ve maintained even through the chaos my life has become.
Mel, the owner, spots me and waves. “Mirabel! Long time no see. The usual?”
I nod, sliding into my favorite corner table. From here, I can see the entire café and the street outside—a habit I developed before moving into Arkady’s world. The weight of my phone in my pocket reminds me of his parting words last night: “Check in every two hours. No exceptions.”
In minutes, Mel places a steaming mug of coffee and a cinnamon roll the size of my face in front of me.
“You look tired,” she says, tucking a strand of gray-streaked hair behind her ear.
“Working too much,” I admit. It’s the simplest truth I can offer. I can hardly tell her that I work for—and am sleeping with—one of the most dangerous men in the city.
Mel squeezes my shoulder and moves to serve another customer, leaving me alone with my thoughts.
I pick at the cinnamon roll, my appetite not what it usually is.
For weeks now, my life has been divided into compartments: Arkady, Dad, the job.
I’ve managed to keep them separate, but the walls are thinning.
The coffee smells incredible, but when I take a sip, my stomach turns unexpectedly. I set the mug down, waiting for the sensation to pass. Strange. I never turn down coffee.
I finish half the roll, leave cash on the table, and head out to take the route to Dad’s neighborhood.
What should I tell him about my new boss?
Nothing.
My body responds to thoughts of Arkady with embarrassing predictability—heat pooling low in my belly, my breath catching as I remember how his hands felt on my skin.
The dangerous contradiction of him: violence and tenderness, control and vulnerability.
I’m falling for a monster with broken pieces that match my own.
I force myself to stop thinking about him, focusing instead on the lies I’ll tell my father. The weight of deception sits heavy in my stomach—or is it something else? The queasiness from earlier returns, and I shift in my seat, breathing slowly until it passes.
By the time I reach Dad’s neighborhood, my stomach has settled, but my conscience hasn’t.
Dad’s home looks smaller each time I visit. The blue paint is peeling around the windows, and the front step has a crack I don’t remember from last time. But the knocker gleams, polished to perfection—Dad’s pride showing in small ways.
He opens the door before I knock. “There she is,” he says, arms already open.
I fall into his embrace, the familiar scent of his aftershave making my throat tight. When I pull back, I notice how his shirt hangs loose on his frame, how the hollows beneath his cheekbones have deepened.
“You’ve lost weight,” I say, immediately regretting it.
“And you look as beautiful as ever.” He smiles, dodging the observation as he ushers me inside. “Come on, I’ve made tea.”
I follow him in. The living room is exactly as it’s always been—worn furniture, bookshelves packed to bursting, family photos covering the walls.
I wander to the mantle while Dad fusses in the kitchen.
The silver frame holds our last complete family photo—Mom, Dad, me at sixteen, laughing with Debra about something just before the camera clicked.
I squeeze my eyes shut and take a deep breath.
Dad returns with a tray, the teapot missing its lid. I guess it still does the job, though.
“How are you feeling?” I ask as he pours. “Really.”
He sighs, the sound weary but not defeated. “The treatments are working, Mira. Dr. Klein says my numbers are improving.”
I study his face for signs of deception, but his eyes meet mine steadily. “You promise?”
“Cross my heart,” he says, making the childish gesture that always made me laugh as a kid. “The meds make me tired, and my appetite isn’t great, but I’m following the protocol.” His hand covers mine, warm and reassuring. “You don’t need to worry so much.”
“It’s my job to worry,” I counter, squeezing his fingers. His skin feels paper-thin over bone.
“No, your job is whatever it is you’re doing that pays for all this.” His gaze sharpens. “Which you still haven’t fully explained.”
I look away, the lie ready on my lips. “It’s a housekeeping position, Dad. Good pay, long hours.”
“With a non-disclosure agreement so strict you can’t even tell your old man the details?” His tone is light, but the question hooks under my ribs.
I give a shrug, trying to look casual. “It’s really no big deal.”
“I may be sick, Mira, but I’m not blind.” He narrows his eyes on me. “You’re tense. Distracted. Too pale. Are you in some kind of trouble?”
I pull in a slow breath. “Dad, it’s not—”
“Don’t,” he cuts me off, voice gentle but firm. “I don’t need to know what you’re mixed up in. I just need to know you’re safe.”
Am I safe? The question echoes in my mind. I have a feeling that Arkady would kill anyone who threatened me, but who would protect me from him if he ever decided I was a liability?
“I’m safe,” I say eventually. “It’s just that I work for a high-profile household and they prefer to keep their life private.”
Dad studies me, the silence stretching uncomfortably. Finally, he sighs. “I hate that you’re doing this for me, Mira. Whatever it is.”
“It’s really not a big deal, Dad,” I say firmly. “Besides, I know you’d do the same for me.”
“In a heartbeat,” he agrees, then changes tack with deliberate brightness. “How about I show you what I’ve been working on?”
The afternoon unfolds in more comfortable territory.
Dad shows me his latest woodworking project—a jewelry box with inlaid mother-of-pearl that reminds me uncomfortably of the luxury of Arkady’s world.
I help him hang new curtains in the bedroom, my muscles aching pleasantly from the simple task.
We order pizza and watch an old Western he loves.
As the sun sets, Dad mutes the TV during a commercial break. His expression has shifted, grown more serious.
“Do you ever think about Debra?” he asks quietly.
The question catches me off guard. We don’t talk about my sister often. The wound is too raw, even after six years.
“Every day,” I admit, my voice smaller than I intend.
Dad nods, looking at the window but seeing something far beyond it. “I had a dream about her last week. She was trying to tell me something, but I couldn’t hear her.”
A chill touches the back of my neck. “I dream about her too.”
“What do you think happened to her, Mira?” His voice cracks on my name.
The question has haunted me for years. The police investigation stalled after months with no leads, no body, nothing. Just another college sophomore who vanished without a trace.
“I don’t know,” I answer honestly. “But lately I’ve been thinking…” I hesitate, not wanting to give him false hope. “What if someone took her? What if she’s still out there somewhere?”
Dad’s eyes grow wet. “I used to think I’d know if she was… gone. That I’d feel it somehow.” He wipes roughly at his cheek. “But I don’t know anything anymore.”
I move to sit beside him, our shoulders touching. “I miss her,” I whisper.
“Me too, baby. Me too.”
We sit in silence as darkness falls completely outside, the weight of absence heavy between us. For the first time in weeks, I’m not thinking about Arkady. This moment belongs to Dad, to Debra’s memory. Not to the man who’s claimed every other part of me and more.
The evening winds down slowly, our conversation turning to lighter topics as we both recover from the emotional toll of discussing my lost twin sister. When Dad’s eyelids begin to droop, I insist he go to bed.
“Stay the night,” he says, squeezing my hand. “Your room’s always ready.”
The thought of sleeping in my childhood bed, away from Arkady’s watchful eye, is tempting.
“I’ll stay,” I decide, kissing Dad’s cheek. “Get some rest.”
After he retires, I move through the quiet house, turning off lights and locking doors.
My old room remains exactly as I left it when I moved out—posters of bands I no longer listen to, science awards from high school, photos of Debra and me throughout childhood stuck to the mirror. A time capsule of who I was before life took its sharp turns.
I curl up in the twin bed, the mattress lumpy in familiar places. Sleep comes quickly after the emotional day, but it’s not restful. In my dream, Debra stands before me, but slightly wrong—her hair too lank, her eyes too wary. Her wrists bear marks like rope burns, and her skin is too pale.
“Find me, Mira,” she says, her voice echoing oddly. “I’m closer than you think. Please find me.”
Behind her looms a shadowy figure—male, broad-shouldered, with what looks like a tattoo crawling up his neck. Something about him seems familiar, but before I can focus, Debra speaks again.
“You know what to look for,” she whispers. “I know you do.”
I try to reach for her, but my arms move through empty air. She fades, the shadow behind her growing larger, consuming the space where she stood.
I jolt awake, my nightshirt damp with sweat, heart racing in my chest. The digital clock reads 3:17 AM, its red digits the only light in the darkness.
The dream clings to me like a second skin, more vivid and disturbing than my usual nightmares about Debra.
Six years.
Six long years since I’ve seen my sister, held her hand, heard her laugh. There isn’t a single second I don’t miss her.
Could she be out there somewhere? Could she be alive? It seems impossible after so long. But the dream felt different—clearer, urgent somehow.
The tears come without warning, hot tracks down my face that I can’t stop. I curl into myself, clutching the pillow to my mouth to muffle the sobs that wrack my body.
I cry for Debra, lost in ways I can’t fathom. For Dad, fighting a battle that’s draining him day by day. For myself, for the lines I’ve crossed, the person I’m becoming in Arkady’s orbit.