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“Yeah, maybe I should.” I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Though I’m not sure how it could help.”
Sydney comes to sit down beside me. “But at least you’re trying. This is about a man’s life. About a killer evading justice, too. Why won’t they look into it more?”
“We don’t have evidence, Syd. We constructed a case out of hearsay.”
The police have dismissed all we have as random, but it feels like a lot to dismiss out of hand. Then again… conspiracy theories are like that. They sound plausible. All the bits seem to fit because you choose to only see the bits that fit and discard the rest.
“It’s not hearsay. Kash wrote these things in his journal.”
I lift my hand and toy with a loose copper strand that’s curled against her neck. “What if the people Kash wrote about aren’t the Vasilievs? What if what he wrote isn’t even real, but a record of dreams? Or… I dunno. Fiction.”
“You think Kash wrote a novel in the form of a journal? Seriously?”
I shrug. “Okay, maybe not. I have no fucking clue, all right? But consider this: what if the police are right after all and Kash walked away?”
“No.”
I tug on the fiery strand, then trail the back of my hand over her satiny cheek. Her eyes are glittery with unshed tears. She’s so fierce, my girl. So determined. So loyal and unwavering. Her mom abandoning her hasn’t changed the diamond core of her, and it shines through her gaze, her words, her decisions.
It makes me feel jaded and cynical. It makes me feel I need to be stronger for her, that I need to steel my resolve and learn from her how to trust. Learn how to love with everything in me.
“I’ll read his journal,” I say. “Show me what you found.”
“Let me bring it.” Flashing me a quick smile, she hurries to the bedroom and comes back with the black leather-bound notebook.
Maybe I missed something, I think as I take it. Something that could convince the police to open the case. It would have to be fucking compelling evidence to pit the police against the Vasilievs, but I’m curious, and I mean, shit, if there’s a chance, any chance at all to get Kash back…
I can’t believe I still think that’s even possible.
But if there’s one thing I learned about this little family around me is that we don’t give up. No way. Not until we’ve used up our last drop of hope.
“He wrote that he was still a kid when his mom and sister were shot dead,” Syd says, pulling the journal to her lap, flipping a few pages and pointing. “Here. It says ‘Uncle A.’ was there. Kash had realized something was off but didn’t know what.”
“Syd, that’s not exactly clear, and it doesn’t implicate the uncle.”
“His dad talked to him years later,” she says. “Here, look. He told Kash that Uncle A. ha
d been behind the killing, and to be careful, because the uncle wanted control of the casinos left to Kash’s dad by his grandma. The uncle was greedy, I guess. And jealous of Kash’s dad for having made a name for himself as a fighter, where Uncle A. couldn’t cut it.”
Damn. “Still no proof.”
“Kash’s dad gave him something. It’s not clear. The word is… Russian? Maybe.”
I drag the journal back to me. “Lemme see.”
“Because your Russian is so much better than mine?”
I snort. “Hey, the letters aren’t so different. It looks like it could read… comnac? Cognac?”
“Look, we can’t just guess. Let me try Google Translate.” She types the word in her phone and lets out a breath. “Compass. That’s what it says.”
I frown at the word. Compass. “What the hell. His dad gave him a compass? And?”
The apartment door opens and we turn toward it as it swings open and West steps inside. He hangs his keyring on the hook because that’s West, neat and tidy, and comes to join us in the living room.
Only he staggers a little and I’m on my feet at the same sec.
“West. The fuck?” He doesn’t look good, pale and sweaty. I catch him as he staggers again and guide him to the sofa and a wide-eyed Sydney. “Man, are you sick? Shit.”
