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“In a bank?”
We fall silent.
So I ask the obvious question. “How would we know which bank? There’s no hint of it in the text.” I read over the words. “We’re at a disadvantage, not speaking Russian, n
ot knowing the words, but I’ve never heard of a bank with a name containing any of these words.”
“What about a club?” Sydney asks. “A Russian club. In Chicago.”
“Sure…” I narrow my eyes at her. She’s thought of something. My girl is brilliant. “Any name in mind?”
“How about Broken Compass?”
I find the club easily. ????????? ??????. Slomannyy kompas. Private exclusive high-class club and casino.
We’ve hit pay dirt—assuming we got the rest of the story right.
“So we are assuming,” I push my laptop away and rub my burning eyes, “that the number is the key to a safety deposit box in this club where Kash’s dad left evidence of the murderer. Piece of cake.”
West groans, throwing himself back on the sofa. “Why wouldn’t Kash have tried to get that evidence in all these years?”
“If he had a stalker, someone always following him, last thing he’d want would be to lead him to the evidence.”
“But he could have gone to the police.”
“Yeah? Listen to this.” Sydney picks up the journal, turns close to the beginning to a page marked with a bookmark, and reads: “The police told me that the deaths of my family were not linked to Uncle A. and that is that. I didn’t have evidence, and even if I found what my dad left for me, I’m tired of fighting and running and hiding. If I stay silent and let him be, maybe he’ll let me be, too. Let me live.”
“Or maybe not. Shit.” His words… they catch at that feeling in my chest, twisting me up.
All Kash wanted was to live.
With us.
I wanna smash the whole apartment up. It’s just not fucking fair. Why couldn’t they leave him alone?
And suddenly I believe with a soul-deep conviction that he didn’t walk away, that he was taken. Syd believed it all along, and reading that passage from his journal hit me straight in the gut. This isn’t a guy who’s looking to bolt when he turns nineteen and go claim his inheritance, who wants to run.
I rub at my chest and the strange ache there. “If there is anything to be found, if we didn’t make all this up and there is a safety box in that club that contains incriminating evidence against this man… then we have to let the police handle it.”
“The police don’t believe us,” Sydney says, her pretty mouth downturned.
“… maybe they will believe us now?” West mutters, grabbing the remote and turning up the volume on the TV. “What is the motherfucker doing now?”
Chapter Forty-Seven
West
“Oh my God…” Sydney is watching the screen, eyes huge and face pallid. “What did he do to Kash?”
Whatever this guy is doing, this uncle of Kash’s, it’s backfiring. He said his nephew is back, and failed to produce him when reporters showed up asking for a picture and interview. He apparently didn’t realize that the tabloids jumped on his small announcement that Kash was back.
We hadn’t, either, until now. Nate grabs his laptop and brings up searches with article after article from the past few days wondering about Kash, his inheritance, talking about his murdered family, and asking for photos of the grown-up prince of the casinos.
And now his uncle, in what looks like a desperate move, says that Kash actually is missing, and that he’ll continue managing the casino chain as Kash’s guardian until Kash is found or declared dead.
“Holy shit,” Nate hisses, scrambling forward, eyes on the TV. “What is that bastard doing? What changed?”
“He took Kash. I bet he did.” Syd’s lips tremble. “That must be what changed.”
