I press myself against the wall, far back enough that I’ll have time to retreat if they make it past the entryway, but close enough to still make out their hushed conversation.
“Luca Sotero’s dead,” Alexei bites out. I rack my brain, trying to think if that’s a name I’ve heard before, and come up empty.
“Blyad,” Andrei sighs. “He wanted info on him so he’d have a fucking excuse, didn’t he?” There’s a tense beat of silence that makes me shift from foot to foot. “Did Maksim take credit, or is he letting them figure it out on their own?”
I wish I could see his face and try to figure out what he’s thinking. Was this Luca guy important?
“Are you fucking kidding? Of course he took credit.” Alexei sounds furious enough to make me flinch.
That, more than anything, tells me I shouldn’t be eavesdropping on their conversation. I try to slink away as quietly as possible, my frustration warring with my stubbornness.
I want to be able to understand what’s happening, why they both seem upset, but without any context, I know I’ll never be able to understand. Sure, if I ask Andrei later, he’ll tell me. He’s not shy about answering my questions. But what happens if I ask him something that he doesn’t want me to know?
If I were to ask him outright if he killed Pavel, would he tell me? I’m sure he did, but would heconfirmit? Or would he clam up and pull away?
He might love me, but is that enough to convince him I’ll keep his secrets?
Maybe it makes me a coward, but I’m not sure I want to find out any time soon. Not when it’s so much easier to keep my head buried in the sand and not risk getting hurt.
I duck into Daniil’s office, pressing my back against the closed door while I look around the room. There’s a thin layer of dust on the shelves and the top of the desk, curtains closed like he just finished working for the night. I pull them open, watching the way the dust floats in the rays of sunlight shining through the windows.
It doesn’t add any life to the room. Everything’s still empty and dull.
I haven’t been in here since before Daniil died. It was always his domain, and I never felt welcome inside it. He preferred that I gave it a wide berth when he was gone, and that I only came in when he invited me.
But he isn’t here to get upset anymore.
I haven’t been able to work up the nerve to start cleaning in here, and when Mila suggested she do it, I took a page out of her book and pretended she hadn’t said anything at all.
My fingers carve a path through the dust as I look at the shelves of books. There are leather-bound hardcovers and fancy notebooks that are filled from cover to cover with his messy notes, jotted down during meetings and hearings. He used to say that they were a police raid waiting to happen, but he trusted them more than keeping digital notes. At least if he burned these, they’d be gone for good.
I entertain the thought of pulling one out and reading it, but can’t bring myself to do it.
Giving up, I sink into his chair and run my fingers over a lingering dark blue stain on the desktop, barely visible through the dark stain of the wood. There’s a pile of notes stacked on the corner of the desk, tempting me with the sharp angles of his almost illegible handwriting.
I pull one out at random, tracing a fingertip over the scrawled notes and smeared ink without taking in the actual words.
I want to say I can judge Andrei as his own person and assume he won’t react the same way Daniil would, but it’s hard.
I’ve let myself love him, but trusting him feels like climbing Mount Everest. If I upset him and he takes off, I’ll be right back where I started. Even worse, I’ll be heartbroken on top of being alone.
“Shut up and mind your own business,” I mutter, resigning myself to being an ostrich for the rest of my life.
It’s a shitty strategy, but it’s served me well enough so far.
I don’t know how long I sit there feeling sorry for myself before the door opens with a creak. I look up, startled to find Andrei looking back at me.
“Did you hear what you wanted?” he asks casually.
He smiles, but it doesn’t soften the embarrassment brewing in my gut. I should have known better than to think that he wouldn’t know I was eavesdropping. I shake my head, occupying myself tidying the notes, staring at the ink stain.
Part of me is still surprised that Daniil didn’t throw out this desk. Or any of the other stained furniture. We hadn’t even gotten around to painting over the stains before he died.
Is it even worth trying to cover them anymore?
“I shouldn’t have,” I admit. “I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”
“It probably will. I’m not going to go out of my way to keep secrets from you unless you want me to.” I look back at him, bracing myself to see anger. He’s leaning against the door, arms crossed loosely over his chest.