Page 134 of Scarlet Thorns
“Who killed him, Jason?” I snap. My lips feel numb as I speak, cold and tingling, as if the warm blood’s been sucked from me. “Tell me!”
“Ilona… if I tell you the name I found, I’m putting you in a world of danger.”
Danger.
Like the figure I thought I saw outside the clinic. Like the car that nearly crashed a few weeks ago. Like the feeling I’ve had lately that invisible eyes are tracking my every movement.
But right now, I don’t give a damn about any of it.
“I don’t care, Jason. I have to know!” I fight to keep my breathing steady.
“This is not someone you want to mess with, kiddo. Even if I tell you, you have to promise me that you never, ever go after this guy. Do you understand me?”
The promise sits on my tongue like poison. Because part of me— the part that’s been hollowed out by loss and betrayal and too many unanswered questions— wants exactly that. Wants to find my father’s killer and make them pay.
“I promise,” I lie.
“Fine. His name is—”
“How was the appointment?” A voice cuts Jason’s words short, leaving me unable to hear the rest of the sentence. Deep, familiar, carrying the same protective undertone I’ve grown accustomed to over the past two days. Melor stands beside the bench, his massive frame blocking out the weak afternoon sun.
“Ilona?” Jason presses. “Are you there?”
“Just a minute,” I tell him.
“Ready to go?” Melor asks, looking pointedly at his watch and then reaching for my purse.
“I’ll call you back,” I manage to tell Jason, my finger already moving toward the end call button.
But just before I hang up, Jason’s voice cuts through the speaker, urgent and sharp: “Ilona, I need you to be very careful, this is—”
The call ends with a soft beep, leaving me staring at Melor’s impassive face and wondering what name just got swallowed by silence.
Chapter Fifty-Three
Osip
Mr. Simpson leads me through corridors that stretch endlessly.
Every door we pass could be hiding my son, and the uncertainty is eating me alive from the inside out.
When he finally stops, it’s in front of a door that looks no different from any other. Plain wood, brass handle, unremarkable.
“You can see Slava,” he says, his voice careful and measured, “but you can’t meet him. This is all I can do for you.”
No, goddammit!
But I force myself to nod because speaking might crack whatever’s left holding me together.
He opens the door, revealing a room divided by glass. Observation glass. The kind they use in police stations when they need you to identify a body.
I step through and my world stops.
There he is.
Slava, my only son, sits on the floor of what looks like a play area— soft mats, colorful toys scattered around him like promises of a normal childhood. He’s the most perfect thing I’ve ever seen. Fair hair catches the afternoon light streaming through windows, and every feature on his tiny face is a mirror of my own. The nose, the shape of his eyes, even the way he tilts his head— it’s like looking at myself three decades ago.
Myson.
