“I’m frustrated.”
“If you want someone to blame, look in the fucking mirror.”
Classic Virus. He was never one to mince words.
Aleksei rubbed a hand over his head. His close-cropped hair prickled his palm. “Yeah. I know. I’m sorry.”
He was sorry. So fucking sorry he’d let his anger get the better of him. So fucking sorry he’d walked out. Of course, Rose went with Kemper. If it were his sister, he would have done the same goddamn thing.
He straightened his shoulders and turned his attention back to the notebook in his hand. He couldn’t change the past. All he could do now was focus on the only shred of hope he had—the notebook. If he were somehow able to figure out where Rose was going and get to her, there might be something in the notebook that could be a bargaining chip—information Rose could take in with her to use as leverage.
Or maybe he was bullshitting himself. Maybe he’d gone back to the notebook because he’d fucked things up beyondrecognition. He was lost and alone and needed his best friend. Holding the notebook was comfort, but like every other time he’d looked at it, it yielded no clues.
The thing was exasperating. It was part diary, part planner, part sketchbook—a mishmash of doodles, sports scores, reminders, addresses, inspirational quotes, books to read, a few recipes, and even Christmas gift ideas for Samantha. He’d pored over it before, reading and rereading it in the months following Phillipe’s death, but he hadn’t found the answers he was looking for. He hadn’t found anything that explained why Phillipe would go out for an unplanned meet, alone, in the middle of the night.
There was a reason Phillipe had left the notebook on the table that night. There was something Phillipe wanted him to see. Something Phillipe wanted him to know. He was sure of it. But whatever it was continued to elude him.
He threw the notebook across the room. “Damn you, Phillipe. Damn you. Damn you. Damn you. Why the hell aren’t you here when I need you?”
The notebook bounced off the wall and flopped to the floor, the well-worn spine lying flat, the hot air from the woodstove flipping the pages.
“You all right there, friend?” Virus asked.
“Yeah, I’m all right,” Aleksei said, distracted. His eyes fixated on the slowly turning pages. The scent of myrrh filled the air. A chill raced down his back. It smelled just like that fancy English cologne Phillipe used to wear.
An odd sensation tickled his spine, and the aroma grew stronger. Magic tingled in his veins.
Phillipe was here with him.
He crossed the room, the floorboards creaking under his feet, and carefully plucked the notebook from where it had fallen. The cardboard cover was smooth in his hand and warm from theheat of the stove. A large printed Gandhi quote spanned both pages:
The law of karma is inexorable and impossible of evasion. There is thus hardly any need for god to interfere. He laid down the law and, as it were, retired.
He’d concentrated on that quote so many times before, trying to divine its meaning—even considered whether it was a coded message—but this time, with the waning sunlight flowing through the window, the words blurred, and his attention was drawn to the tiny sketches at the corners of the pages.
Phillipe’s sketches were always precise and lifelike. Although small, these were no different. The drawing on the bottom left was of a beautiful arched window. The one on the right showed two men in business suits.
One man was tall, with slicked-back hair and an outstretched hand that offered a stack of cash. His posture exuded authority and condescension. The other, shorter man lazed against a wall with an air of bored indifference. He had one arm extended, as if reaching for the money. A cigarette hung between two fingers of his other hand, a thin line of smoke floating up into the lined white pages.
Recognition hit like a sucker punch.
It was Kemper and Moresco.
Phillipe had no reason to draw them together. Kemper had never met Moresco in person. He’d only seen him on surveillance tapes. Or so he’d said.
It could be an imagined scene, but any time Aleksei had seen him sketch, Phillipe had drawn something right in front of him—their server, a dog, a building they were staking out. That meant there was a good chance Phillipe had actually seen them together.
Kemper and Moresco. Together.
Son of a bitch.
He ran a finger over the image of the arched window, trying not to vomit. At the point of the arch, there was a hammer crossed by a saw and encircled by leaves. He knew that window. There were three of them over the front door of the building where Phillipe was murdered.
The sketch of the window and the sketch of the men were on opposite pages, but his instincts told him they were connected. Did the payoff happen in front of that building? He knew Phillipe. Phillipe always looked for the best in everybody. If Phillipe saw Kemper take money from Moresco, he would have confronted Kemper about it face-to-face. He would have given him a chance to explain.
And what would Kemper have done in response?
The smoky, earthy scent of myrrh tickled his nostrils again. He lifted his head. Virus sat in the rocking chair, head down, focused on cleaning his rifle. No candles were lit. No incense was burning. Aleksei ran his finger over the drawing of the arched window, letting his mind wander back to that terrible morning, allowing the images of Phillipe’s dead body to settle in his mind instead of pushing them away as he had in the past.