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“Do you think we can make it work this time? You + Me, for good?”
“I am made for this. Just for this. To be with you.”
***
I have no business being in this office, but I just happened to duck inside when I saw that Raphaël was calling me for the sixth time today. It’s starting to feel like harassment, and Vadim, Maximilian, and Abigail do not need to hear me deal with him.
“Raphaël, you have thirty seconds to convince me not to file a complaint against you.”
“Charming.”
“You know what would be charming? Letting me live my life without calling me every fifteen minutes! Stop using our painful past to play with my emotions and make me feel guilty! Sort out your problems yourself and give me room to breathe, please.”
“Is that really what you want?”
“Yes.”
“Then I’ll try.”
“I’m going to block your number. And if you continue to contact me, I’ll take more drastic measures.”
I hang up without giving him a chance to argue, then delete the call from my call log. I’m about to leave the office feeling a little lighter, when my foot catches on the edge of the rug. I stumble and steady myself against an antique cabinet. Under the pressure, the door swings open, and I find myself staring at a row of old manila folders, each labeled “Jane and Volodia,” followed by a year.
I shouldn’t. It’s none of my business. He’d be furious with me.
Just a quick look…
What I discover twists my stomach. In the first folder, the one dating back fifteen years, I find newspaper articles, official documents, and various notes. All these papers tell the same story: Volodia Arcadi and Jane Howard King were brutally murdered in the street in 1996. Murdered in front of their three-year-old son, Vadim Arcadi—the orphan who, for twenty-nine years, has relentlessly searched for the perpetrator of that brutal crime.
31
Alma
I put the folder back where I found it and slump to the floor, trying to ignore the frantic pounding of my heart. It’s a horrific discovery, and the shock has me fighting back tears. Crying is selfish, though. Pointless. I should be thinking about him—his pain and his anger—rather than letting my own emotions overwhelm me.
I love him so much that imagining him carrying this burden breaks my heart. Vadim was three years old; he was just a child. All these years, he’s kept this to himself and never told me anything. Suddenly, I feel as though I don’t know him at all, as though I’ve only glimpsed the tiniest fraction of his wounded soul.
There are so many things I don’t know about him.
Judging by the thickness of these folders, he has been actively hunting the culprit for fifteen years. And something else quickly becomes clear to me: until he accomplishes his mission, he will continue to devote his life to it.
But how far is he willing to go?
“Alma, are you playing hide and seek?” Appearing out of nowhere, Vadim pushes open the office door, a smirk on his lips.
His eyes flick from my face to the half-open cabinet. His whole body tenses.
“Vadim, I wasn’t snooping, I… The cabinet opened… I’m sorry…”
“Did you look?”
“Just at one folder…”
“Which one?”
“What does it matter, Vadim?” I murmur.
“Which one, Alma?” His voice is unrecognizable.
