13. Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Thirteen
Aurora
Becoming the lead character in a criminal investigation show or a mystery novel wasn’t exactly on my list of likely events to happen this year.
Then again, neither was not being selected for an internship, nor getting a chunk of my hair cut by a kindergartener.
Maybe I shouldn’t be surprised by anything that happens in my life, no matter how improbable it seems. I should buy a lottery ticket, but with my luck, I’ll end up owing money to the Nevada State Lottery.
Still wired from a restless night, I pace back and forth in front of my queen-size bed, realizing part of me, an embarrassingly not small part, finds the whole situation exhilarating.
Once my anger at Daniel’s initial deceit subsided, excitement started coursing through my veins.
Ever since I discovered the world of mysteries as a teenager, I’ve been captivated by them, devouring books and, as I grew up, movies and shows just as voraciously.
All the while, my mom would complain that such fascination was unhealthy and detrimental to my psyche.
What would she say if she knew what I was up to now?
I can almost envision wisps of smoke rising from the thin layered rug underneath me, evidence of the skid marks left by my frantic pacing. The nervousness makes me sweaty, and a shiver ripples through my body. I pull on an oversized hoodie in a futile attempt to warm up.
Could it be true? Could Sergei have killed his wife?
I don’t think so, but the way he handled Dave—grabbing him like that—I have no doubt he’s capable of more…
There’s a darkness in him that should terrify me and send me running, but it has the opposite effect.
It draws me closer, piquing my curiosity and heating my blood.
There are single moments, fragments in time, where the mask of the cold, calculating businessman slips, and I can see there’s a softer layer beneath that protective exterior.
When he was watching Misha’s swim lesson, I thought the condensation on the glass wall had blurred my vision.
Sergei’s smile lit up his whole face, melting the poised statue into a radiant beam.
The way he cares about his son—how he lets Misha thump dinosaur toys on his back or play hide-and-seek with him despite the exhaustion written on his face—shows a different side of him.
Even with me, I feel like some of these frozen barriers have started to thaw.
Like when he placed his jacket on my shoulders or offered to pack my suitcase.
Oh God, Sergei saw my underwear drawer.
I pull my hair to the front of my face, burying it in my hands.
But a daring thought unfolds before I have the chance to stop it.
What did he think of them? Did he imagine me in them?
Did he fantasize about taking them off me in a slow, delicious manner?
Was he uncomfortable with my outfit only because of his concern about his image, or maybe seeing me like that made him attracted to me? And how does that make me feel?
I huff loud and long, making my hair jump, and part the blonde makeshift curtain from my eyes.
Looking down at my hands, I recall the warmth of his smooth skin when I touched his face, and how much I wanted to run my fingers through his hair, maybe have him step closer and wrap his strong arms around me.
A single recollection of his scent makes me half-dizzy, forcing me to climb onto my bed.
I pull the pillow over my face and let out a muffled scream.
What’s wrong with me?
There are a million reasons why this line of thinking is so inappropriate.
Because even if I didn’t just agree to help Daniel investigate Sergei, I’m still his son’s nanny.
And I’m not just his employee anymore, but now his tenant.
I can’t, I won’t mess this up. I press my hands against my temples, urging my brain to cease its overthinking.
But what if I find something? What if I solve this? What if I prove Sergei’s innocence? Don’t be ridiculous, Aurora, I scold myself in the most Miranda Priestly voice I can muster. The idea I’ll be the one to crack this case is absolutely ludicrous.
But what if?
“Okay.” I force myself to pause and take a deep breath, fixing my hair behind my ears. “Okay.”
He needs me. I’m not even sure who I’m talking about.
Daniel, who has no one else to help him with this case.
Or Sergei, who’s likely innocent and yet is in the bullseye of Daniel’s aim.
And what if Sergei isn’t innocent? Then that brings me to Misha.
Misha, who lost his mother and might never know the identity of her killer.
I can help. I could make an impact. Isn’t that what I always wanted, to make a difference?
I’ll start small—a conversation, a normal, simple conversation. There’s nothing wrong with that.
I shoot up to the door before losing my courage. As I walk to the kitchen, finding Nadia there feels like a sign, a well-scripted setup for a climactic scene in a weekly SVU episode.
“You look worried,” I say, using it as an opening.
“It’s just my usual expression,” Nadia replies with a smile.
“Anything in particular on your mind?” I grab a cup from the cupboard and start making myself tea.
“Just work stuff.” Nadia repeatedly lifts and dips the tea bag in her cup, as if unsure whether to let it steep or remove it entirely. “Things aren’t going as smoothly as we’d hoped, but it’ll all work out eventually, one way or another.”
She shoos me away from the corner of the island with a quick wave of her hand. “Don’t stand there, or you won’t get married.”
I lift my brow in confusion, then nearly snort.
There are at least ten more pressing reasons I won’t find someone who wants to marry me.
Still, I look down and realize I’m leaning against the corner of the counter and immediately spring away.
By now, I’ve quickly learned not to argue with the various Ukrainian old-tale superstitions.
If Nadia says she needs to sit silently before a trip, I zip my mouth and sit next to her.
If I’m told not to whistle in the apartment lest it chase away the money, I stop whistling.
And after the horrified look she gave me for accidentally opening an umbrella inside once, I’m not taking chances anymore.
I decide I can’t wait for a natural segue anymore and say, “I heard from Anton that you’re going to be a grandma?”
Step one: Build a rapport so they feel comfortable and open to talking to you.
“Da!” Nadia’s face lights up, and she pulls out her phone, tapping a few times before showing me an ultrasound photo. “Isn’t she beautiful?”
I nod softly as I lean in for a closer look. “A girl?”
“Da! My daughter always wanted a girl, and it took them quite some time to get pregnant.” Her accent subtly comes through as she speaks.
“It’s considered a geriatric pregnancy since she’s thirty-six, but everything’s going well.
” Nadia traces the sign of the cross over her body—fingertips brushing her forehead, then moving down to her chest, right shoulder, and left.
“The baby’s healthy, and so is Mama.” She brings her hands together, bowing her head in gratitude.
“Well, seeing how you are with Misha, I have no doubt you’ll be an amazing grandma.”
Step two: Bring the topic of interest casually into the conversation.
“I love that boy as if he were my own,” Nadia admits.
“My heart breaks every time I think about him losing his mother at such a young age.”
Nadia finally rests the tea bag in her cup. “Yes, such a tragedy is unthinkable.”
“How well did you know her?” I ask, choosing my words carefully. “More water?” I hold up the teapot. Step three: Ply with snacks. Though that might only work with children. I’m definitely making this up as I go.
Nadia shakes her head. “As well as one could know Alessia.” She sighs, and for a moment, I worry she might not continue, but then she does. “Alessia was young—not just in age, but in spirit.”
“I can imagine becoming a mother at twenty-one must have been a shock for her. I’m older than she was, and the idea of having a child of my own right now scares me,” I admit, gently blowing on my tea as I watch the steam curl upward.
“Misha was unplanned but never unwanted. Alessia was a wonderful mother.”
“Sergei seems like such an opposite of her,” I say, noticing Nadia’s quick eyebrow raise. “What I mean is,” I hurry to explain myself, “as you mentioned, she was young at heart. He strikes me as someone so stoic and mature, like he’s a grandpa in a younger man’s body.”
Don’t talk about his body, Aurora.
I take a careful sip of my tea, frustrated that it only makes me feel warmer.
“Da. They were different,” Nadia says. “I think that’s why their romance was so, how do you say, hot and heavy?”
Fanning my face with my hand doesn’t help, so I reluctantly strip off my hoodie, revealing the blue tank top smeared with a now crusty stain of applesauce, a stamp of Misha’s mouth from when he hugged me earlier.
“I heard he was a suspect?” I ask, trying not to flinch at my own question.
Nadia slams her hand on the counter. “Those idiots. I don’t know what they teach at police academy, but they were absolutely wrong about Sergei.”
“So, I have nothing to worry about?” I choke out half a laugh and get up to bring the jar of sushki to the island. “Would you like one?”
“Da, Spasibo,” she thanks me, taking one from the jar.
I hold my breath, anxiously awaiting her response. As someone who knows Sergei as well as she does, her answer means everything to me.
“I think…”—she gazes into the distance before continuing—“he would never raise his hand on an innocent, let alone leave the mother of his son in a dark alley to bleed to death.”
It’s not the full denial I was hoping for, but it’s something.
“So, do you know why the police suspected him?” I ask.