Page 100 of Filthy Lies

It’s when they lower the casket that I feel it—a prickling sensation at the back of my neck. The hairs there stand to attention, a warning sign honed through months of living on high alert.

We’re being watched.

I scan the cemetery, paranoia sharpening my senses. Security personnel blend among the mourners and line the perimeter, but they’re looking for threats from outside, not within.

That’s when I see him.

Standing at the edge of the cemetery, partially obscured by a massive oak tree, is Grigor Petrov.

He doesn’t approach or make any motion to draw attention to himself. He simply stands, head bowed, paying silent respect to the woman he once loved enough to let her go.

My gasp must be audible, because Vince’s hand immediately tightens on my waist. “What is it?” he murmurs, voice low enough that only I can hear.

I incline my head slightly toward the oak tree. “Grigor.”

Vince’s entire body tenses, preparing for action. “Stay here.”

“No,” I grab his wrist to stop him. “Let him be.”

“Rowan—”

“He loved her, Vince.” My voice cracks on the wordloved.Past tense. “Let him say goodbye.”

For a moment, I think he’ll refuse. Then his shoulders relax, though only a bit. “If he makes one move toward you or Sofiya?—”

“He won’t.”

And he doesn’t. When I look back at the oak tree, Grigor is gone. Like a ghost that was never really there at all.

At least he’s consistent in that regard.

After the service, when the mourners disperse and Sofiya is tucked safely in bed, I find myself in Mom’s room at our compound. The smell of her still lingers in the air—antiseptic overlaid with the faintest trace of the jasmine perfume she’d worn since I was a child.

I sit on her bed, running my fingers over the quilt she’d insisted on bringing from home. The well-worn fabric holds memories in its fibers—late night stories, fever sweats, tears both happy and heartbroken.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper to the empty room. To her, wherever she’s gone. “I didn’t save you.”

My hand brushes something hard beneath the pillow. Curious, I reach under and pull out a small, wooden box I’ve never seen before. It’s simple but beautifully crafted, with no lock, just a small brass latch holding it shut.

Inside, I find a stack of letters. The paper is yellowed with age, the handwriting bold and assured, nothing like my mother’s delicate script.

The first envelope bears a single word:Margaret.

With trembling fingers, I unfold the letter inside.

Mysolnishka,

If you are reading this, you have chosen to leave, as I always feared you would. I cannot blame you. The life I offer is stained with blood that will never wash clean. You deserve sunlight, not shadow.

Know this: I will not follow. Not because I do not wish to move heaven and earth to find you, but because I respect the choice you have made. Your freedom means more to me than my own happiness.

But if you ever need something—ever, for any reason—the number I gave you will always reach me. No matter how many years pass, I will answer. I will come. I will do what you ask of me.

And until then, or even if that day never comes, I will hold the memory of your smile like a talisman against the darkness that threatens to swallow me whole.

Forever yours,

Grigor

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