ANNASOPHIA
Nicholas sits on the edge of the living room sofa with the face of a three-year-old boy who just dropped his double-dip Rocky-Road ice cream cone in a pile of dog caca.
At first, I’m sure he shows a flicker of recognition at Maverick’s name. Now, I think my imagination leapfrogged to what I long to hear.
Or maybe it’s my conscience giving me a good nip. I should feel guilty for misleading Nicolas. I implied I’d tell him about Maverick, but when I open my mouth, I can’t find the words. I feel rage flare through him like electricity, and my nerve-endings jump.
“I’ve never heard of Maverick O’Rourke. Who is he?”
“A guy Alexandra met. I thought you might know him.”
“Did she bring him here? She and I are supposed to have a monogamous relationship. We agreed ...” Lines around his mouth tighten, and his eyes harden. His big hands open and close into fists. “Was he—this Maverick—at Emily’s?”
“No. The girls—”
“Were supposed to have a sleepover. Alexandra doesn’t drink. Or do drugs, but the other girls are a bad influence. They drink at Emily’s. Her parents don’t give a damn.” The little boy flickers across his face again, but a note of blame rings in the rush of his judgments and his implied message. You should never have let her go to Emily’s.
“Well, I give a damn.” I should’ve asked more questions about Alexandra’s friends instead of trying to keep the peace. What else does Nicholas know? Does he have any idea his princess isn’t waiting for his wake-up kiss?
“Where is she?” Not a request, a demand.
“I don’t think it’s in her best interest for anyone—”
“I’m not anyone, Mrs. Romanov.” He leaps off the sofa, surprisingly agile for such a stocky man-child. “I love Alexandra. I’d do anything for her.”
“There a problem?” Ari appears in the doorway. He’s shorter than Nicholas by at least two inches, but years of teaching Stanford students have given him a natural air of authority.
“I want to know where Alexandra is.” Nicholas’s voice is harsh. His upper body bristles.
My chest tightens. I picture the hair on his back rising like an animal ready to attack.
“Threats won’t get you what you want,” Ari says in the voice I imagine he uses to coax chimpanzees to trust him on their jungle-turf.
“I’ve been very civil with Mrs. Romanov and gotten nowhere.”
“You have been very civil,” I interject and take a step toward the doorway where Ari remains, hands loose at his sides. “In turn, I gave you all the information I intend to give you tonight.”
“That’s your exit line, Nicholas.” Ari sweeps a hand in front of his waist as if bowing a lousy musician off stage.
Nicholas looks from me to Ari, shrugs, leaves unsaid, whatever.
For an instant, rage dumps into me, and I want to shake him, remind him he loves Alexandra—whatever that means. I take a deep breath and let him go ahead of me. “I’d appreciate it if you’d keep our talk confidential. Facts get twisted and morph into—”
“Yeah, yeah.” The sneer in his voice is unmistakable even though he turns his head to look at me, and his face reflects only impassivity. “I understand about gossip and rumors. Whether I say anything or not, everyone will be talking as soon as Alexandra misses school tomorrow.”
It’s a calculated jab, but he’s right. “That sounds a little exaggerated.”
He exhales through his nose. “The crap about your husband’s murder has never died down. Kids ask Alexandra all the time—two years later—what happened.”
The statement hits me with the force of an anvil in my solar plexus. “I think exaggeration is your natural way to interpret events. If your point of view is accurate, why hasn’t Alexandra said something to me?”
“I don’t think it’s in her best interests to divulge what she’s told me on that subject.”
“Hey.” Ari steps between us. He lets the single word and the solidness of his body send his message.
Nicholas goes predator still before moving so he can see me. “You’d be better off if you told me everything. Bonfires morph into five-alarm infernos.”
He opens the front door himself and jogs down the steps without calling goodbye or looking back.
I wait till he gets in his shiny, red sports car and roars into the street before I close the door and accept a bear hug from Ari. “My, that went well.”
“I assume you told him about Maverick?”
“I asked him if he knew Maverick. I didn’t tell him she went to bed with Maverick. Or that Maverick is dead. He jumped to enough conclusions.”
“Don’t let him spook you. He’s upset—testosterone overload. Imagine how he’d feel if he knew you found them in bed.”
The door is closed, but a chill rattles my shoulders. “Did Soshanna tell you Maverick was murdered?”
“She did. How did the kids take that news?”
The chill settles in my chest, shrinking my lungs. “They took the news of another murder in their lives better than I did.”
“Your kids have learned that no one—not even you—can protect them from the dark things out there. Murder—when the victim somehow touches our lives—is about as dark as dark gets. Your kids have watched you struggle and survive. They’ve picked up some of that resilience. They survived Michael, they’ll survive Maverick if you’re honest with them.”
Even Alexandra?
Soshanna comes toward us. “This a private conversation?”
Ari’s comment—meant to give me strength, I’m sure—burrows into my liver hard as a nail. Murder doesn’t exist in his faraway jungle laboratory. He’s an academic—not a parent.
“Not private.” I shake my head. “A conversation about things that go bump in the dark.”
Nicholas’s words collide in the dark holes of my brain. The crap about your husband’s murder has never died down.
Have I been in denial all this time?