ANNASOPHIA
Friday—9 a.m.—Palo Alto, California
“Miz Romanov was terrified. For her three children. For herself. Her experience with guns is minimal, Jason. The gun’s discharge was a tragic accident. Nothing more.”
The DA’s all-beige office seems to glow as Reese Macfarland’s passion builds. The confident rhythm of her voice and the perfect alignment of her spine nearly sway my opinion of what happened yesterday.
Satish disagrees with my memories of Nicholas’s death.
Tell the DA what you think really happened, and you risk time in jail.
His warning loops in my mind as I sit across from the DA. Does his desk—polished to a high sheen—reflect my attempts to paste on my innocent face?
“Nicholas Karpov entered her home armed. After he kidnapped two of her children. He threatened her and them with the gun.”
The DA lets the silence following this statement stretch out a little too long before he says, “The victim’s father is demanding a Grand Jury.”
“The victim’s father is a high-class hoodlum.”
Reese puts a hand on Satish’s arm and pulls him back into his chair. “The victim’s father is distraught. As would any parent be under these circumstances. The circumstances don’t clear him from entering the Romanov home with an armed associate. That associate—”
The DA holds up a hand. Reese stops talking. “Yes, two wounded cops and a traumatized CSI tech don’t help Mr. Karpov’s case.” He looks down at his desk and traces a circle on the mirrored surface. “Your actions, Satish ... shooting two men doesn’t add to your credibility.”
A twitch in Satish’s shoulder reveals how close he is to shrugging.
No longer giving a damn about Reese, I blurt, “Dimitri Karpov wants revenge. I don’t blame him. If my child were dead—he’s a violent man. By nature. By intention. By profession. By vicious disregard for anyone he sees as a threat. I think and feel he would’ve killed me and my children had Satish failed to stop his violence.”
*****
About ten feet of carpet separates Alexandra’s single chair from the long sofa in Rachel Hamilton’s waiting room. Alexandra sits with knees pulled up to her chin, arms wrapped around her legs. Her eyes dart everywhere but my face as I enter—a few minutes early for our appointment.
Less than seventeen hours ago I shot Nicholas Karpov, the boy I thought she considered her boyfriend. The boy she loved. Ninety minutes ago, Reese brought the DA to surrender.
No arrests today. Not till the DA evaluates the forensic evidence and testimony from the cops and CSI tech. Not even if Dimitri Karpov makes good on his threat and calls the governor.
Of course, if I’m playing fair, Alexandra has no idea I might go to jail. She returned to her cocoon here at Hill View in time for breakfast this morning.
If she knew, would she care?
To hell with her body language. And her snub. And her keep-your-distance subtext.
After killing a young man, am I going to let her lead our dance? I march up to her and kiss her forehead—the one spot she always allowed me to kiss when she was a toddler. She flinches as if my lips leave her branded.
She leans back, lifting her head away from further contact. “I hope you’re here to expedite my transfer to Westbrier. After what happened with Nicholas ... and Maverick ... I can never go back to Woodside Academy.”
“Woodside’s not the only school …” The calm, detached voice I intended to project rises to defensive. She still doesn’t know about Lefevbre or Jennifer.
“Everyone at any school on the Peninsula will know what happened.”
“Not everyone.” God, what’s bigger than an adolescent’s ego? I shake off the question. “Kids your age have pretty short-term attention spans.”
Stupid, stupid, stupid. Someday, I’ll learn silence is the better part of intelligence.
Before I can apologize or explain, she says, “Short-term attention spans—undoubtedly why every day a Woodside student wants gory details about my father’s demise.”
“Do they say demise instead of murder?”
Her face shuts down and my point—now forgotten—fades. I extend my hand. “If that question sounds flippant—”
“It does. It also sounds ignorant. You have no idea how much I hate those kids. Their snickers. Their envy.” She drops her feet to the floor, twists in the chair, and stares out the window at dark clouds scudding across the gray sky. “Half of them wish their fathers were dead. Most wouldn’t shed a tear if their mothers dropped off the face of the earth.”
Her cynicism reeks of such ugliness I am stunned. My tongue—dry and tasting of old gym socks—sticks to the roof of my mouth.
She glances over her shoulder. “Oh, my. I think I’ve shocked you, AnnaSophia. Won’t you just love living with my mouth, day-in-day-out?”
“We’ll figure out something.” The rasp in my voice amplifies my hopelessness.
The door behind us clicks open. Alexandra laughs. She drawls, “Perfect timing, doc.”
Rachel beckons us into her inner office, closes the door, and immediately takes charge. “What do you feel about Nicholas’s death, Alexandra?”
“What should I feel? He didn’t deserve me. He admitted he wanted someone better than him. Someone smarter. Richer. More exciting.”
My jaw drops. Michael. God, she sounds as narcissistic as Michael.
Too late, I snap my mouth shut—but not before I catch her smirk. Cold. Cruel. Cynical.
“Go on,” Rachel says, her tone flat.
“He wanted everyone at school to think he was cool because I belonged to him. As if.” She tosses her head, showing no signs of a headache. “He didn’t deserve me. Ever.”
“But ... how many times did I have to tell him in the past three months to go home? You were ... inseparable.” I picture her attached to his neck like a deadly bloodsucker.
She shudders. “He was needy. Immature. His father was always traveling.”
“Did you have any feelings for him?”
Without pausing to consider my question, she rolls her eyes. “That infant?”
“But Alexandra—”
“No, AnnaSophia. He never understood me. He always wanted me to stroke his ego. Why? I am smarter. Richer. More exciting. He never had an original thought.”
“He was in love with you.”
“Is that an excuse for being dull?” She yawns—naturally—not the faux-gesture teenagers fall back on to drive adults crazy. “He was always tripping—over his own feet, generally. Stepping on my toes. I swear he slept in his clothes.”
“But Alexandra—” I stop. At a loss for what to say. How to defend someone I’d disliked? Discounted. Distrusted. Killed. “His mother died five years ago. Do you think he paid attention to the housekeeper about how to dress?”
“His mistake. I pay zero attention to you about how I should dress. Don’t I have an innate sense of what clothes naturally go together? How they make a statement? How to face the world with confidence?”
“How could he exude confidence when he projected so much sadness? I thought—I assumed his mother’s death might have brought you two together.”
She laughs and tosses her head again in that way of models in TV-shampoo commercials. “You are kidding, right?”
She doesn’t pause for a breath before saying, “Sex brought us together.”
Ohhh-fuck.
Her eyes dance and sparkle with a sly, calculated desire to inform—not to shock.
I pinch the inside of my elbow. “Meaning?”
“He’d’ve killed to get in my pants. I’d have died first.”