Page 7 of Weeping Roses
I head over and lift one into my hand and the rage deepens when I see my father grinning out at me, appearing a lot more relaxed than he ever did at home.
It was obviously taken here, in the garden we saw at the front of the house because nestled behind him is the front door we passed through. He is staring into the camera lens with a look of pure love, and it can only be directed at one person. Pollyanna’s aunt.
So many venomous thoughts are exploding in my head right now, and I set the frame back carefully on the table and reach for my phone. As I take a picture, I forward it to my brother Titus, and I have no doubt at all he will be as enraged as I’m feeling now.
“Is that your father?” A soft voice behind me wafts across my soul like the lightest feather and I say simply, “Yes.”
“Was he my aunt’s boyfriend?”
It’s a simple enough question and I hate the answer may be yes and merely snap, “It’s looking that way.”
She hovers beside me and then says softly, “He looks nice.”
It makes me laugh out loud.
“Nice?”
I turn and stare into the greenest eyes I have ever seen and snap, “He was never nice. He was a Romanov and nice isn’t an attribute we associate with anyone bearing that name.”
“Why not?”
Her eyes widen and I laugh bitterly. “Because nice gets you killed or loses money.”
“Money?”
It amuses me that out of the two options she settled on the money one and I regard her differently as she whispers, “I’ve never had money; not enough to stop worrying about it, anyway, but I try to be nice because I happen to believe that’s more valuable.”
She smiles nervously and then turns away, leaving her words wafting around my soul like poison. It was a simple enough statement and not one I want to dwell on too long, so I say abruptly, “Come. We’re wasting time.”
We advance through the house, and I don’t allow her to linger over the details because there is only one room that interests me. We soon locate what must have been her aunt’s office, although it only contains one antique desk set against a wall with a huge tapestry above it.
I sweep the room with an interested gaze as I search for information and Polly wanders over to the window and settles on a cushioned seat on the window ledge.
“I can’t believe this is all mine.”
I ignore her ramblings and focus my attention on the desk, sweeping open the drawer and pulling out several manila envelopes that rest inside.
“Um, excuse me, but what are you doing?”
Her sudden comment momentarily distracts me, and I respond gruffly, “Searching for something that will expedite my exit from your life. Do you have a problem with that?”
“You could have asked.”
She sounds offended, but that doesn’t concern me, and I ignore her as I take a seat on the padded chair and set about opening the envelopes.
Her soft sigh doesn’t distract me in the slightest as I scan the documents that are obviously of no use to me. It appears that Veronica was involved in many charities, and these are merely correspondence regarding those and as Artem heads into the room, I say gruffly, “Any luck?”
He hesitates from answering, which causes my eyes to raise, and he nods toward Polly.
He inclines his head to the hallway outside and I waste no time in joining him, leaving her gazing out of the window at the glorious gardens that appear to stretch to the hills.
“What is it?” I ask in a low murmur and he answers, “Either Veronica was extremely untidy, or somebody got here before us.”
“Tell me.”
“The coach house down by the lake. Viktor and Krem went to search it, and it appears to have been used as an office.”
“Appears?”