Page 60 of Filthy Lies

“Margaret never told me she was pregnant when she left.” His eyes grow distant with memory. “She simply disappeared one day. I searched, of course. But your mother was clever. She knew how to vanish.”

I shake my head. “She said you wanted to marry her, to bring her into your world.”

“I did.” His hands spread in a gesture that reminds me viscerally of myself. “I loved her. But Margaret wanted a different life.”

“So how did you find out about me?”

A server enters with water, and conversation pauses. The silence looms taut and awkward until the door closes again.

“Chance,” Grigor continues. “One of my men saw Margaret in Albany with a little girl. A girl with my eyes.” He drinks from his water glass. “I had her investigated, discreetly. When I confirmed you were mine, I had to decide what to do.”

“And what did you decide?”

“To respect Margaret’s choice.” His voice grows quiet. “She left my world to protect you from it. I would not undo that sacrifice by forcing my way back in.”

I feel my skepticism rising. “You expect me to believe that a man like you just walked away?”

“No.” He reaches for a leather portfolio beside him. “I did not walk away. I simply kept my distance.”

He opens the portfolio and slides a photograph across the table.

It’s me. Maybe six years old, missing my two front teeth, holding an ice cream cone in Albany’s Washington Park.

I do a stunned double-take. “How did you get this?”

Instead of answering, he slides another photograph forward.

Me at my high school graduation, accepting my diploma.

Another—moving into my college dorm room.

“You’ve been watching me my entire life.”

“Protecting you,” he corrects. “From a distance.”

I feel lightheaded, the room spinning as decades of my existence rearrange themselves around this new information.

“The telescope,” I whisper.

Grigor’s eyebrows raise. “Pardon?”

“For my twelfth birthday. I got this amazing telescope. Mom said it was from a distant relative.” I stare at him. “That was you?”

A small, satisfied smile crosses his face. “You wanted to be an astronaut. I heard you needed proper equipment.”

“And the prom dress? Senior year? When Mom’s treatment wiped out our savings?”

Grigor nods. “It suited your complexion.”

I feel Vince tense beside me, his breathing pattern changing. This is new information to him, too.

“Why?” I demand. “Why do all that and never introduce yourself?”

“Because Margaret was right.” Grigor’s eyes flick to Vince, then back to me. “My world is dangerous. The farther you stayed from it, the safer you were.”

Vince makes a sound—something between a scoff and a laugh.

“You find this amusing, Akopov?” Grigor’s voice turns to ice.

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