My head spins as I step into the elevator.She hardly hesitated. She’s changed.
The elevator ascends. Each passing number blinks above my head as the cables of the car lift me up. I’m nearly lost in my thoughts again when the doors part and I step into the hallway. I look at the door of my penthouse suite.
My home.
Ourhome.
The living room is empty when I walk inside. No sounds come from the hallway to indicate Viktoria and Liya roaming around. It’s as dead in here as Jonas is downstairs.
“Liya?”
A gasp comes from the kitchen and glass shatters. I walk briskly toward the doorway and see Liya standing with a wild expression, her fingers digging into her blouse like she’s trying to keep her heart from bursting out of her chest.
Glass litters the ground.
“Don’t move,” I instruct as I march past her.
She recoils from me, the reaction causing my heart to quiver. I try to ignore it and sweep up the remains of a blue teacup.
“I’ll make you another.”
She flees the kitchen once the ground is clear. I dump the glass into the trash bin and set two fresh teacups on a tray next to the matching pot. This is Viktoria’s job, but I don’t feel like trying to find her. Not now.
Liya melted into a screaming banshee when Jonas died. Now, she’s acting like a caged bird, fluttering around the bars of her home without making a true effort to escape.
I return to the living room only to find it empty. Liya is gone. The whole place is too quiet for my liking.
Viktoria appears and takes the tray.
“Welcome home, Pavel Sergeyevich,” she says in a calm voice. “Dinner is in ten minutes. Do you want tea here or on the terrace?”
I shake my head. “Not for me. For Liya.”
She nods and drifts away without a word.
Murmurs float from the hallway. I don’t try to listen, choosing to sit at the table until Viktoria returns. She sets the table, disappears into the kitchen, and then returns with bacon-wrapped pork tenderloin. The scent is intoxicating, pushing away the horrible smells from downstairs.
Within a few minutes, Liya joins me at the table. She stares at her plate blankly like she’s never seen meat in her life.
“Rodnaya,” I say gently.
She twitches.
I clear my throat. “What’s going on?”
She shakes her head. “Tired.”
I bow my head while lifting my wineglass. “Has anyone called Jonas’s phone since I handed it to you?”
A sharp breath. A quick glance to the left. Hesitance.
And then she says, “No.”
“You never hesitate,” I point out in a low voice. “I won’t be mad. I just need to know. It was your idea, remember?”
“Yes.”
That voice doesn’t belong to my wife. That isn’t my Liya. That’s just a robot reciting lines.