Page 80 of Tangled Roses

It says something when it takes me a minute to realize who he’s speaking of and then, as it hits home, I say with no emotion. “How?”

The kettle boils and on autopilot, I turn and lift two mugs from the cupboard and heap some coffee grains into them and set about making coffee as if it’s the cure for everything.

He says nothing as I digest his words and then ask. “How do you take it?”

“Black.”

I smile. Of course he does.

As I set about finishing my task, my mind is racing.

My mother is dead.

Did he kill her?

I don’t even care if he did. She probably deserved it anyway.

As I stir in my creamer, I compare how I’m feeling to when my grandmother died and there is no comparison. I loved her, whereas Marsha was just a name for a very long time, until recently.

I owe her nothing, not even my grief and so I take a deep breath and turn to face him.

“Okay. Tell me.”

He nods to two stools resting against the center island, and as we sit, I prepare to hear the details as if we are catching up over coffee. I suppose we are really and I swallow the hysterical giggle that isn’t far away, and he studies me with concern.

“Are you okay, malysh?”

“Of course.” I take a sip before saying evenly, “She was a stranger, Arman. She didn’t want me when she was alive, so why should I care that she’s dead now?”

He nods and reaches out, tangling his fingers in mine, and tells me what happened.

I listen intently and when he finishes, I say simply, “She was mugged?”

He shakes his head. “No. If only it were that simple.”

“Then what? Murdered. By who?”

He sighs and I notice how weary he looks and I feel bad that he handled this on his own.

“The cops were called by the cab driver, who found her. We gave our statements and later they will call around to formally notify you as her next of kin.”

“I suppose I am.” I didn’t even think of that and shrug. “That’s fine. Maybe they will shed some light on what happened.”

“I already know.”

Arman’s eyes are dark and dangerous and I catch my breath. “Tell me.”

“Luka witnessed the whole thing as we approached. He saw the man running away from her body and gave chase with a few of my men.”

“So she was mugged.”

“At first, that was the story because the assailant stole her purse. When Luka and my men caught up with him, they persuaded him to talk. He confessed it was set up and was an ordered hit and he was to take her purse to Roden Demain.”

“Who?”

“The owner of a strip club that coincidentally, our friend Nikolai Barinov visited when he was in town.”

“He ordered the hit?” I can’t believe I’m discussing this at all. I don’t say sentences that include the words ‘ordered a hit.’ I order take out and dresses. Not murder.