SATISH
Soft lights in the kitchen bathed the walls in a glow suggesting perfect harmony. Satish skirted the island and keyed in the security code to the garage. Could Alexandra spell harmony?
Vision blurring, he reset the code for the outside door. Windows locked, according to the computerized system. He returned to the pool.
Birds rustled in the trees. The moon’s silvered quarter-face lay in the water like a ghostly clown. But no signs of human clowns waiting their turn with Alexandra. He exhaled through his mouth and snaked around the pool. Cool air washed over him. He cocked his head side to side.
Okay, call him paranoid. And cynical.
No one hung around the pool.
Just in case, he checked inside the pool house—his mind numb after his adrenaline crash. If he thought about it, thought in logical terms, Alexandra could no more slip out of the house than he could sleep in the Porsche until dawn. No way she’d take off.
Not dramatic enough.
Still, the drama queen might yet raise more hell sometime tonight.
Shiiiit. He reentered the kitchen, losing the debate about leaving. He’d stay close to the Romanovs till daybreak. Domestic violence didn’t belong exclusively to aggression between adults. He’d investigated his share of homicides committed by kids against parents.
Inhaling, he dug out a plastic container and filled it with ice. Alexandra’s behavior—and her psycho father’s DNA—stirred images of feces and bodies he couldn’t shake. The Magnum had been empty. Didn’t mean there weren’t bullets in the house.
Bullets drew troubled teenagers the way fires drew pyromaniacs.
God, what a miserable thought. He returned to AnnaSophia’s bedroom. Pillows, a blanket, and a deep comforter lay in a pile on one side of the door. AnnaSophia sat propped against the headboard, her right foot elevated. The circles under her closed eyes looked like prunes.
How long has she been losing the battle of wills with Alexandra?
Her attempt at smiling a thank you for the ice failed miserably. While she filled an ice bag, he checked the windows. Stupid. The security system was armed. He was stalling.
Hoping for what, exactly?
His mind veered to the linens on the floor. He avoided glancing at the bed and removed his belt. Crashed down onto the makeshift pallet. Kicked off his shoes. The bedside lamp clicked off. He exhaled and stared into the dark. His hypocritical heart pounded louder and harder and faster in the blackness. Sweat stuck his shirt to his back. His pulse vibrated between his ears, the rhythm too quick, too irregular.
Christ, was he having a heart attack? Would AnnaSophia hear him thrashing?”
His Inner Drama King howled. Face burning, he clamped his elbows against his waist and willed his clenched jaw to relax. Choking on his own spit … gross. He stifled a laugh.
In all his wet dreams about AnnaSophia Romanov, he’d never dreamed of sleeping on the floor with her daughter snoring like an elephant in the same room.