Phil’s expression was sympathetic.
“You’ve all been through some bad stuff, and it’ll take time. Bratva are ruthless, vicious. But they’re clever, too. Good at covering their tracks—at least that’s true of Volkov. This Sergei character, it looks like he’d been a loose cannon for a while and Volkov was itching to get rid of him. Hell, you probably did the guy a favor.”
“He was evil. I’m glad I killed him.”
I squeezed Ash’s hand, warning him not to admit to anything. Yes, this reporter was on our side, but ultimately, he was here to sell newspapers—we had to be careful.
Ash took a deep breath before launching into his story, starting from seeing an advertisement for a job in Las Vegas. I chimed in with a few things about our escape: Ash’s memory of that was hazy. I should have realized at the time that he was in shock, but I’d been too scared myself to fully understand.
Ash wouldn’t look when I showed Phil the photograph of his lacerated back, although he did agree to let the reporter see how it had healed. My poor boy’s scars were worse on the inside.
Ash stood in the center of our small living room and yanked his shirt over his head, breathing in humiliation as Phil took several photographs.
Then we talked about our relationship, and I even admitted that I’d been seeing someone else when I met Ash, but tried to downplay that as much as possible. I wasn’t proud of the way I’d treated Collin.
And because Phil was good at his job, he also worked out that Ash had taken the theater job before his green card had come through.
I winced, knowing that the same information would come out in the event of a court case.
“Ash came into the U.S. on an H-1B Specialty Occupations work visa. That was legitimate and he believed it was still valid,” I improvised. “We were already married when he realized that it was time-expired. It was a genuine mistake.”
I’m not sure if he believed me, but he didn’t challenge us on it either.
And then Ash was asked to describe what had happened in the theater. He started off calmly, but soon his voice rose and he started pacing the room, tugging on his short hair.
I threw him a warning look, but he was too locked in his memories.
“I saw Laney fall and my world ended,” he cried out. “I wanted to die with her—but I wanted him to die first.” He took a deep, satisfying breath. “So I killed him.”
Oh, Ash.
Phil’s eyebrows shot up. “Um, so you might want to practice that answer before the police interview you.”
“Why should anyone care?” Ash yelled. “He was evil! He was a murderer! He liked to torture people—who cares that he’s dead? He tried to kill Laney! I’d do it again!”
“Ash,” I called, holding out my good arm to him.
He threw himself at my feet, wrapping his arms around my waist as his knees bumped against the couch. Shuddering breaths wracked his whole body.
“I love you,” I whispered, tears pricking my eyes as I held him tightly. “I love you.”
Out of the corner of my eye I saw Phil stand up.
“I’ll see myself out,” he said quietly.
Ash
I had no ego left, no arrogance. It had all been stripped away. Stolen. And I was naked before her. There was nothing left, just Laney and her arms around me.
We stayed that way for a long time, her gentle fingers stroking my back, running through my hair, soothing, wordless.
Eventually, my knees protested about the hard wooden floors and I stood clumsily, wiping my eyes, too exhausted to be embarrassed that I’d broken down in front of that reporter.
I’d lost everything else—the loss of dignity wasn’t going to kill me. I wanted to laugh at the irony. No, I was wrong. I hadn’t lost anything, because my Laney was still here.
When I dared to look, her eyes were gentle, warm. It was one of those quiet, subtle moments, where words weren’t needed to communicate the deepest feelings.
We were together, through the good times and the bad. And I finally understood. Why have a beating heart if you don’t know why it beats—or for whom.
“I love you, too,” I said.
Laney
PHIL NICKEAS’ ARTICLE came out on December 28th, the morning of our police interview. Angie had given me a heads up that it was going to be published. Ash volunteered to run out and buy the newspaper, and he needed to get out of the apartment. Despite the pain from his fractured sternum, he was going stir crazy with nothing to do. He didn’t like reading in English and television bored him. He spent most of his time surfing the net and listening to music, exercising as much as he could—probably more than he should.
He returned ten minutes later, his cheeks flushed from the cold and snowflakes clinging to his long eyelashes.
He flung the paper onto my desk and stalked into the kitchen.
I was only four pages in when I found Phil’s article:
SLAVES OF THE SYSTEM