Page 23 of The Pakhan's Dangerous Secret
"So what?" I laugh, but it comes out bitter and broken. "You're saying I should be grateful to be your prisoner? That I should thank you for kidnapping me because at least you're keeping me safe from the other monsters out there?"
"I'm saying you might as well get comfortable." He moves closer again, and this time, I do back away. "Because you're not going anywhere. Not until this is resolved."
"And how, exactly, is this going to be resolved?" I demand. "You keep asking me questions I can't answer. You keep looking for information I don't have. So what's your endgame here, Andrey? Are you just going to keep me locked up forever?"
"If that's what it takes." His voice is hard now, all traces of sympathy gone.
I sink onto the edge of the bed, suddenly exhausted. All the anger that's been fueling me for the past few hours drains away, leaving me hollow and empty. What's the point of fighting? What's the point of resisting when I'm completely powerless?
"I really don't know where he is," I say quietly, staring at my hands. "I haven't heard from him in nine years. For all I know, he's dead."
"He's not dead." Andrey's voice is certain. "If he were, someone would have found him by now. No, he's alive and hiding somewhere."
I don't respond. What is there to say? He's made up his mind about what happened, about what my father did, and nothing I say will change it.
Andrey walks back to the desk, his fingers drumming against the wood as he stares at the jewelry box. I watch him, my heart in my throat. I almost feel violated with him looking at the only thing I have left of my family.
"Now," Andrey says, turning to face me with an expression I can't read. "About this jewelry box…"
12
ANDREY
Istand at the desk, my fingers resting on the carved lid of the jewelry box, and turn back to face Mariya. She's still sitting on the edge of the bed, her green eyes fixed on the box like it's a bomb about to explode. The panic I saw flash across her face when I first brought it in hasn't completely faded. It's still there, lurking beneath the surface, making her shoulders tense and her breathing shallow.
What the hell is in this box that has her so worried?
I've already gone through it once, back at her apartment. I looked at every piece of jewelry inside, searching for anything that might be connected to my family's missing heirlooms. But there was nothing, just a collection of modest pieces that looked like they'd been passed down through generations. Sentimental value, sure, but nothing worth the kind of fear I'm seeing in her eyes right now.
"About this jewelry box," I say again, watching her carefully.
She stands, her hands clenching into fists at her sides. "Give it back."
"Not until you tell me why you're so worried about it."
"It's mine. It belonged to my mother. That's all you need to know."
I study her face, looking for any sign that she's hiding something. Her jaw is tight, her lips pressed into a thin line, and she won't quite meet my eyes, but she doesn't look like she's hiding anything.
"Nothing. It's just jewelry," she says. "Family pieces that mean something to me." She takes a step toward me, then stops, like she's afraid to get too close. "Please. Just give it back. It's all I have of my old life, of my mother."
The desperation in her voice almost makes me reconsider. Almost. I open the lid and dump the contents onto the bed.
Jewelry scatters across the burgundy comforter. A necklace with a small pendant. A pair of earrings. Several rings. A bracelet. And a brooch that looks old, tarnished with age. I pick up each piece slowly, examining them while watching Mariya's reaction out of the corner of my eye.
She's trying to keep her expression neutral, but I can see the tension in her body. But she doesn't show more emotion for any particular item. No sudden gasps or attempts to grab something from my hands, just that constant, underlying panic that seems to radiate from her.
I'm about to give up, about to admit that maybe there really is nothing here, when something catches my attention. The brooch. It's an old piece, ornate but worn, with a design that looks vaguely familiar. But what draws my eye is the way the metal sits. It looks slightly off, like it was once broken and someone glued it back together.
I pick it up, turning it over in my fingers. She reaches out as if to take it from me, then drops her hand. I turn away from her, holding the brooch up to the light. The seam where it was repaired is more obvious now, a thin line running along the edge. My fingers find a small catch on the side, and when I press it, the brooch opens.
A small piece of paper slips out and flutters to the floor.
Mariya gasps, and I can't tell if she's as surprised as I am or if she's upset that I found it. Whateveritis.
I bend down and pick up the paper, unfolding it carefully. It's old, yellowed with age, and there's only one word written on it in faded ink.
Bayou
