Chapter Thirty-Nine
Mirabel
Hours blend into the polished surface of Arkady’s mansion as I complete one task after another.
The scent of fresh polish and detergent clings to me, but my mind is elsewhere—each sweep of the cloth, each adjustment of the curtains carries me to the sterile corridors of the hospital where my father lies.
During a lull, I spot Arkady striding down the hallway, engrossed in his phone. I step into his path carefully, making him pause.
“I need an extra day off tomorrow,” I tell him, trying to keep my voice steady.
“What for?” His eyes pin me down, icy and assessing.
“It… It’s my father,” I swallow hard. I don’t want to share my personal problems with a man who might very well have been involved in my sister’s disappearance. “He’s in hospital.”
I brace myself, knowing my request unsettles the routine, particularly when he has a house full of important guests. Not to mention that the man’s a control freak. He might say no just to show me who’s boss.
“Tomorrow is impossible,” he says, voice dropping to that low register that vibrates through my chest. “There is a lot happening right now.”
“I know. And didn’t I rise to the occasion to make it all happen?
When you needed the conference room prepped for your associates with the special food requirements, I did it, didn’t I?
” I counter, forcing strength into my voice despite the way his proximity makes my pulse quicken.
“I worked like a dog, Arkady. Surely you can give me one day?”
I know I’m pushing my luck, but I have to try. Dad needs me right now.
Arkady exhales, his lips pursing. “Your father’s condition—is it critical?”
“I don’t know yet,” I admit. “But it looks that way. I want to be by his side.”
He stares at me, making me want to squirm. For a terrifying moment, I wonder if he can read suspicion on my face—if he knows I’ve recognized Stefan from that terrible day when Debra disappeared.
“Take the day,” he finally says, the permission sounding like both a concession and a threat. “But I expect you back the following morning, ready to work.”
Relief floods me. “Thank you.”
I try to slip away, but his hand catches my wrist. “Don’t think that our… private activities mean you can take advantage of this position, Mirabel.”
Private activities?
Really?
I nod, not trusting myself to say anything more, and hurry down the corridor when he releases me, feeling his eyes track every step until I turn the corner.
***
The oncology ward always fills me with despair.
I’ve grown too familiar with these corridors, these sounds—the soft beep of monitors, the squeak of nurses’ shoes, the hushed conversations that stop when you walk past.
Dad lies in bed, his skin sallow against the white sheets. The treatments have taken their toll, hollowing his cheeks, thinning his hair. His eyes flutter open when I take his hand.
“Hey, butterfly,” he whispers, using his old nickname for me.
“Hey, Dad.” I squeeze his fingers, alarmed by how fragile they feel. “How’s the food here?”
“Terrible.” A ghost of a smile touches his lips. “But the nurses are pretty.”
I laugh softly, playing our familiar game. “Always the charmer.”
“I get by.” His gaze clouds, lips twisting in pain.
“Dad?” Alarm fills me. “Are you okay? Can I get you anything?”
“No, sweetheart.” He pats my hand. “Just tired, that’s all.”
I don’t believe him, but I don’t try to argue. “Maybe you should get some more rest. I’ll stay here with you.” The thought of leaving now fills me with dread. What if I go and he slips away while I’m not here?
He nods slightly, already drifting back to sleep. I sit with him until his breathing deepens, my thumb tracing the back of his hand.
I look around the small, sterile room with its institutional furniture and thin curtains.
Nothing like the opulent surroundings I clean daily at Ashwater Heights, where the bathroom fixtures probably need to be insured.
The contrast makes my situation painfully clear—I’m trapped between worlds, belonging to neither.
When Dad’s oncologist, Dr. Klein, arrives, he gestures for me to step outside. In the hallway, his expression tells me everything before he speaks.
“The cancer has metastasized to his lymph nodes,” he says, his voice clinical but kind. “The current treatment protocol is no longer effective.”
My throat constricts, chest tightening like someone’s wrapping a fist around my lungs. “What does that mean?”
“We have a few options to try—more aggressive chemotherapy, targeted radiation. But I want to be honest with you. His body is weak, and the prognosis isn’t good.”
My heart stutters. “And if those don’t work?”
“Then we discuss palliative care. Find ways to make him comfortable. He could go home if he prefers.”
The words crash through me, shattering whatever composure I’ve maintained. “Home to die?” I ask sharply.
Dr. Klein nods, his eyes sympathetic. “I’m sorry, Ms. McLeod. We’ll do everything we can.”
I thank him mechanically, my mind already racing ahead to costs, to time off, to what this means. Borrowing more money from Arkady would be unthinkable after what I’ve learned. But what choice would I have?
The walls of my gilded cage contract further.
A nurse walks past, pushing a trolley; she shoots me a concerned look. I straighten my shoulders. There’s no sense in falling apart now. Dad needs me.
I return to Dad’s room, settling into the chair beside his bed. He sleeps fitfully, his breathing labored. Each rasp cuts through me. I stay until visiting hours end, until the nurse gently suggests I go home and rest.
Outside, the air bites through my jacket. I order an Uber, watching the little car icon crawl across the map on my phone. When it arrives, I slide into the back seat and give the driver Dad’s address. He doesn’t try to make conversation—thank God for small mercies.
The city slides past the window in a blur of streetlights and shuttered shops. I stare out numbly, trying not to think about lymph nodes or metastasis or palliative care. Trying not to imagine Dad choosing to die at home rather than fight treatments that might not work.
The Uber stops outside the familiar suburban home.
I pay through the app and step onto the pavement, staring up at the dark windows.
How many nights did I spend here with Debra, the two of us sprawled on the living room floor while Dad pretended not to notice we were watching films too old for us?
And what has this home become since then?
A shell of what used to be.
The key turns in the lock. I step inside.
My father’s house is exactly as I left it last weekend—dishes drying on the rack, his favorite sweater thrown over the arm of the couch, the scent of his aftershave lingering in the air. I collapse onto the sofa, suddenly exhausted by everything that’s happened.
The tears come then, hot and furious. I curl into myself, sobs wracking my body until I can barely breathe.
Mom’s gone. Dad is dying. My sister is gone.
And I’m pregnant with the child of a man who has made it clear he never wants children—a man whose world drips with danger and secrets that might include my sister’s disappearance.
What will I do without Dad?
“It’s all my fault,” I mumble into a tear-soaked cushion.
It started with Debra. Her disappearance broke something in Dad—in all of us.
That terrible fight we had before her school trip, the cutting words I can’t take back.
If I hadn’t been so stubborn, maybe she wouldn’t have gone.
Maybe she’d still be here, and Dad wouldn’t have withdrawn into grief until cancer found its way into the hollow spaces.
The memory hits me with sudden clarity—Debra’s face, identical to mine but twisted with hurt, as I accused her of something stupid I can barely remember. The slamming door. The silence that followed. Then she was gone without a trace. And there, in the woods, I saw him. The bald man with tattoos.
Stefan.
The same man who’s now hanging around my lover’s home.
He’s not your lover, you idiot.
Then what is he?
I dash a tear away, angry with myself for even thinking about the status of my non-relationship with Arkady with all that’s going on.
“I miss you so much,” I whisper into the empty room, my voice raw. “What would you do, Debra? Dad’s dying, I’m pregnant, and the father…” My voice breaks. “The father might be the reason you’re gone.”
I’m suddenly overwhelmed by the fear that I might be looking at a future where I’m totally alone. A single mom raising a mobster’s child. There’s no way I can work there after the baby’s born.
Don’t be ridiculous, Mirabel.
If Dad dies, you sell the house to pay the bills and ditch the shitty job.
The thought of facing the harsh practicalities of wrapping up my father’s home only leaves me more miserable. I cry until exhaustion claims me, slipping into a fitful sleep on the couch where Dad and I used to have popcorn fights with Debra.
My phone’s vibration pulls me from darkness. I fumble for it, disoriented. It’s Diane. I answer it.
“Hello?” My voice is thick with sleep.
“Where are you?” Diane’s voice fills my ear, concern laced through her tone. “I’ve been texting for hours!”
“At Dad’s place,” I mutter, sitting up. My neck protests the awkward angle. “Sorry. Rough day.”
“What happened?” Her tone softens immediately.
I explain about Dad’s prognosis, each word ripping open fresh wounds.
“Jesus, Mir. I’m so sorry,” she says. “What can I do?”
“Nothing. I’ll figure it out.”
“You always say that.”
“Because I always do,” I counter, rubbing my eyes.
A beat of silence. “How’s the spawn?”
Despite everything, I smile at her nickname for the baby. “Growing. Making me pee every twenty minutes.”
“And Mr. Russian ice king?”
My smile fades, stomach clenching. “Same as ever. But Di… there’s something I need to tell you.”
“What’s wrong?”
I take a deep breath. “Remember that man I told you about, the one with the tattoos up his neck and across his head? I saw him at Arkady’s house—I even spoke to him.”
“Wait, what? The guy from—?”
“From where Debra went missing. Yes.” My heart races just saying it aloud. “I think Arkady might know something about my sister’s disappearance. Maybe he’s even involved.”
“Shit… Mirabel,” Diane’s voice drops to a harsh whisper. “Get out of there. Now. If what you’re saying is true—”
“I can’t,” I interrupt. “Dad needs these treatments. I need this job.”
“Your life is worth more than money!”
“And what about Dad’s life?” I snap. “Should I just let him die because I’m scared?”
“Do you know what these men do to people who cross them?” Diane asks, her voice tight with fear. “My cousin dated a guy connected to the Russian mob. When she tried to leave, he—” She stops abruptly. “Let’s just say she doesn’t go out in public much anymore.”
My blood runs cold. I’ve seen the casual violence in Arkady’s world—the bruised knuckles he doesn’t explain, the hushed conversations that stop when I enter a room, the way his men touch their weapons when strangers approach.
“Mir, please. At least be careful. Don’t confront Arkady. I’ve heard things about Empire Royale. It’s not just a casino. They say there’s Russian mob involvement.”
“I’m not stupid, Di,” I say, though fear crawls up my spine. “But I need to know the truth. I can’t walk away now.”
“Promise me you’ll be careful,” she insists.
“I promise.” It’s not true. Careful isn’t going to find Debra or save Dad.
After we hang up, I move to the bathroom, splashing cold water on my face. In the mirror, I see Debra’s eyes staring back at me—we were identical, after all. I place a hand on my stomach, feeling the slight firmness that wasn’t there just weeks ago.
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” I whisper to my reflection, to the baby, to Debra’s ghost. “But I’ll find the truth. No matter what it costs.”