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The differences in our personalities are more obvious in here. Dimi’s desk is older, an antique he imported from Russia. He thinks we don’t know that this was originally his grandfather’s desk, sold off when our families’ homes were emptied, the contents thrown away, discarded, or put up for sale.
It appeared on an online auction site about five years ago, not long after we purchased the island, and he recognized it, bought it, and had it shipped to the US, then to here. The antique desk is immaculately clean and polished to a shine. His laptop, notepad, and pens, are all neatly lined up in the middle. The shelves behind him are an organizational dream, color coded, labeled and then filed. A place for everything and everything in its place.
In complete contrast, Vik’s desk is an explosion of cables, computing equipment, ripped off scraps of paper filled with scribbled notes, and half-drunk energy drinks. It’s a mess, but it’s his mess, and he loses his mind if anyone moves anything. Every few days the house staff will carefully extract the trash, but beyond that, no one touches his chaos.
My desk is a mixture of the two. My modern, adjustable-height ergonomically designed desk is predominantly clear, except for my large desk plotter that’s littered with notes, thoughts, and to-do lists. The shelves behind are hectic, with a mixture of half organized binders and file boxes, interspersed with piles of surveillance equipment, old laptops, and tubs full of flash drives and other bits and bobs.
This office probably says more about us than any other room in the house and I exhale as I slide into my chair, relieved to be home after so long away. We had the house built not long after we bought the island. There was already a property here, but as soon as we stepped foot inside, we knew it wasn’t somewhere we could see ourselves living. It was ostentatious and gaudy, with too much self-imposed grandeur for somewhere so beautiful.
We razed the old house to the ground and had this place built in its wake. The three of us own buildings all over the world, property is a great investment, but this house is the first place all of us have ever wanted to call home.
The ground floor was perfect from the time we moved in, but it wasn’t until we found Alabama again and remodeled upstairs with her in mind, that it finally felt right. Like we’d been waiting for her the whole time.
I want her to be happy here, and Vik’s comment about using her and sending her back to Georgia has niggling doubts squirming to life in my gut. Taking her was about keeping her safe, but there’s also a deeper, darker reason that we sought her out in the first place.
She has a purpose for being here that’s bigger than the three of us seeing her, wanting her, and taking her. A purpose that doesn’t require her to be willing or complicit. There’s always a third option, and it’s the one that’s the least palatable to me. It’s a last resort that I hope we don’t have to use, but the reality is, if she doesn’t step in line, we’ll do what we need to do to force her to heel.
Opening up my laptop, I pull up the surveillance notes I made when we first started watching her. She was one of the easiest marks I’ve ever had, because her life was a series of routines. From the very first day, nothing about her was spontaneous or surprising. She went to work and came home. She bought groceries at the same store every time, shopped for clothes at the same handful of thrift stores, and peered into the same dumpsters on her way to and from work every day.
The only thing that varied in her day-to-day routine was what food Raul would feed her on the days they worked together. I don’t know how they became friendly, but there was a comradery with him that she never shared with anyone else in her world.
Clicking through the pages and pages of notes, I find the one I made when I was bored sitting at the back of the bar, discreetly watching her work. It’s a list of the things Raul made her and the frequency of how often.
The things he cooked for her weren’t fancy, they weren’t even the most nutritionally valuable things. In fact, for a while, I’d thought they were completely random choices, based solely on what he was making when she started her shift. Until I realized that there was a pattern.
Along with her routine, I made notes about her appearance, state of mind, and facial expression and judging by his food choices, so did Raul. On days she looked tired, he’d feed her waffles, with syrup and fruit, a sugar fix to give her a boost to get through her shift. When she started to look thin, he’d feed her grilled cheese with bacon and onion rings. If she was angry, or scowling, it’d be bowls of fries, that always seemed to make her smile. Of course, some days, he’d throw something random into the mix, a burger, french toast, wings. But for the most part his choice was directly linked to making her feel better.
If Raul wasn’t happily married with two kids, I’d have been worried that he had a thing for her, but after looking into him and his family, I concluded that he was just a good guy. Quickly typing out an email, I arrange for two actors to visit his house and present him with one of those huge checks for a hundred grand for a fictional competition he’ll struggle to remember entering.
I might not have a problem with stalking and kidnapping, but that doesn’t make me a monster, and gifting him some money is the least I can do to anonymously thank him for looking after Alabama for us.
There’s a handful of unopened emails sitting in my inbox and I slowly open them, replying when I need to, ignoring the ones that hold no interest for me. The final email just has two words written on it.
He’s dead.
CHAPTER 11
dimitri
Striding out of the dining room, I head down the corridor and into the boot room where the luggage we brought off the plane with us yesterday is sitting, untouched. The staff have already emptied and laundered the clothes and things from our cases that we sent ahead of our arrival, but they know better than to open these bags.
Ignoring my own bag, I unzip Vik’s, rolling my eyes, when I find tape, handcuffs, and a fucking ball gag sitting on the top. Below them is the small leather pouch that I’m looking for, and I lift it out, zipping up the bag again before heading for the kitchen.
Our household staff consist of a couple, Alexander and Roza and their daughter Tanya. Their parents worked for my grandparents in Russia and when we were exiled, they chose to come with us rather than stay behind and have to deal with the shame of working in a less prestigious home within the family.
They are loyal to the core and when I asked them about relocating here, they immediately agreed. Opening up the refrigerator, I grab a small sealed bottle of water and carry it over to the sink. Placing it on the counter beside the leather pouch, I open up the bottom drawer and pull out a tube of superglue.
Moving back to the sink, I open the pouch and take out a syringe and a sealed needle. Opening all of the packaging, I attach the needle to the syringe, then grab the small bottle of sedative and stab the needle into the top, withdrawing a quarter of the amount I used the last time I sedated her.
Turning the water bottle upside down, I carefully push the tip of the needle through the plastic and inject the sedative into the water. Withdrawing the needle, I open the superglue and fill the minute injection site with glue, sealing the bottle again.
Tipping it the right way up, I shake the bottle, mixing it and ensuring it’s completely sealed, before I dispose of the used needle and syringe in the small disposable sharps box that’s also in the pouch.
Putting the sedative back into the pouch, I close it and slide it into my pocket. Then I put the glue back into the drawer and offer Roza a pointed look as I stride out of the kitchen without saying a word, the water bottle gripped tightly in my hand. Grabbing my cell, I select a familiar number and hit dial.
“Mr. Belov,” the doctor answers on the first ring.
“Dr. Woods, I need you to come to the house.”
