Chapter 10

The Strange Faces of Grief

Despite the ring, handed down from ten generations of Romanov fathers to the oldest son on his sixteenth birthday, my father insisted on seeing the body.

This should be interesting. The ultimate unraveling of my father. Excitement shot through me, and I telegraphed my eagerness to Dimitri. We were going to witness my father coming undone. The beginning of his end.

Detective Larsen said, “There is no need to see your son at this moment, Herr Romanov. We can arrange for a viewing tomorrow.”

Now. I’m here.”

Was there still a scintilla of hope in his voice?

All right,” Detective Bensen said. “Give me a few seconds.”

“For what? If that is truly my son in there, nothing you can do will make this any easier.”

“If you insist.” Stiffness crept into Bensen’s monotonous inflection. “I’ll call the pathologist to make sure he’s available.”

My father’s face turned that unhealthy purple again. “If he’s not available, call someone else.”

Lean on me, Far.” I offered my elbow. “I’ll go with—”

Get away from me. Don’t even think about going with me, you ghoul.”

Ghoul? If he only knew. I swallowed my laugh and whispered, “You’ve had a shock.”

Surprisingly, he didn’t strike me. He stared. As if I was covered in shit. He opened his mouth, but Detective Bensen returned and escorted him down a long hall. Dimitri tapped my biceps, letting me know I was the winner. We stood in silence for fifteen minutes. My father shuffled back into the waiting room. Eyes blank, skin ashen, he ordered me and Dimitri back in the car. His voice carried all the warmth of the icicles hanging from the buildings. He got in the front seat and imposed another no-speaking rule.

My father, the Russia autocrat. I cleared my throat to signal my intent to ask if the police had made the correct assumptions, but Dimitri shook his head in warning. Shudders racked my father’s back and shoulders, but he didn’t make a sound. Lost in his own grief, he made no effort to offer me and Dimitri solace.

Not that I wanted—expected—or needed solace. Neither of my parents had ever given me consolation. Or approval. Or love.

By the time I was five, I’d figured out a reason for their emotional distance. They adored Alexei so thoroughly they had nothing left for me.

The chauffeur pulled into the garage and cut the engine without speaking.

My father said, “I’ll be ready to leave again in five minutes. Get a thermos of tea from Ingrid.”

“Yessir.” He got out of the car. As he crossed in front of it, my father spoke to me and Dimitri without turning. “Stay in your room for the rest of the day and tomorrow. Ingrid will bring your meals. If your mother asks you to visit, send your regrets through Ingrid. If she comes to your room, lock the door so that she cannot enter.”

Holy shit, Dimitri mouthed our favorite obscenity. Fuck you had not yet entered our vocabulary.

The door whispered open. The haggard, bloodless face my father turned to us resembled that of a dying man. Perhaps, more accurately, the face of a man already dead.

“No radio. No records. No chess or cards. Nothing to distract you from mourning Alexei. Do you understand?”