He’s silent for only a second or two, but it’s a heavy silence. An anxious one. “I am taking this seriously, Anton. I always have.”
I know I’m being hard on him, but I can’t help it. His mistakes have big consequences. The kind that can’t be undone. The kind that bleed.
“What I meant was, we’re bound to find a lead any day now. I’ve got all my men on it.”
“You mean you have all my men on it,” I remind him.
“Yes, Anton, that’s what I mean.”
I sigh. “I don’t want this search letting up until we have her.”
“Got it, boss.”
“Good. Keep me posted. I want daily updates.”
“I’ll do that.” But he lingers on the phone, breathing nervously.
“Anything else?” I ask.
“How’s Jessa?”
I frown. “She’s fine.”
“She overdoes it sometimes. You might want to make sure she gets some rest,” he continues.
“I know how to handle my business, Yulian,” I say through gritted teeth.
“She’s not exactly business, though, is she, brother?”
Is he goading me right now? Or maybe there’s nothing there and I’m just reading into it, just angling for a fight with my brother.
Maybe I’ve been gunning down this path since I found out just how badly he fucked up with ensuring Marina’s story was ended with finality.
“She is whatever I say she is.”
“She’s carrying your child.”
“I realize she’s carrying my child, Yulian,” I hiss. “Why do you think I’m fucking invested? Why do you think I’m doing all this shit?”
I hear an intake of breath and turn around just in time to see Jessa’s skirts as she disappears up the darkened path that leads back to the house.
Fuck. How long was she standing there?
Long enough, it seems. Another thing I can thank my brother for. Add it to the goddamn list. He’s still rambling on the other end, oblivious to the chaos he’s causing. I hang up on him mid-sentence.
The fight has drained out of me. Ironic, considering it looks like I’m going to get one tonight anyway.
Just not the one I saw coming.
I head back into the house to find Margaret waiting for me by the staircase.
“I can show you up to the room we prepared for you,” she says. “Thomas already took Jessa up. She seemed… tired.”
I follow her up the carpeted stairs. The blue carpet is worn and the stairs creak as we navigate up them.
“We had them redone shortly after we moved into the manor,” Margaret tells me. “But that was almost forty years ago. We might have to do some more work on them.”
“Things don’t have to be perfect to be worth keeping,” I mutter. I’m not sure where that comes from or even what it means. And as soon as I’ve said it, I wish I hadn’t.