Chapter Twenty-Seven
Kira remained in her seat, sipping her second cocktail long after Reuben left. Rand showed good judgment and didn’t approach her. She didn’t want to talk to him in public.
And she didn’t want to go back to her room, where they could talk in private.
There was too much hurt for her to be able to trust him just yet. But she feared she’d have to trust him because she was more certain than ever that she was in over her head and she needed help.
After twenty minutes, she rose to her feet and wandered up the street to the main road with all the shops and more restaurants. Rand followed her, but as long as he kept his distance, she wouldn’t complain.
It occurred to her that two boozy cocktails weren’t the best dinner, and even though she wasn’t hungry, she needed to eat. She stepped up to the host stand of the first restaurant she saw and requested a table. The heat of the day had lessened as they entered evening hours, but the sun wouldn’t set for another hour and a half, so it was far from cool, and this part of the city lacked the Mediterranean breeze.
My next trip to Malta won’t be in summer.
She tripped over that thought. Would she really come back? The country itself was stunning. The locals were kind. But from the first vaguely threatening text message to learning it was possible her father was a Russian spy, she couldn’t say she was enjoying herself.
Her first European vacation was not going as planned.
She’d really thought her father was a hero, recovering art that belonged to Holocaust survivors.
It was a pretty fantasy. She’d wanted to find proof that her mother’s secret life in the US—Kira’s very existence—had some sort of noble purpose behind it. She’d spun fanciful tales about her mother fleeing the USSR and then working with her father to translate communications for her father that helped him pinpoint which oligarch was living large with someone else’s treasure.
But it was all just fantasy. Her father had been doing something noteworthy, for sure, but exactly who he’d been working for remained a mystery.
Sometimes, history was better left buried.
Her mother had been prone to lengthy periods of depression. There were many half-finished canvases in the basement that had empty cradles or other symbols for a lost child. When Kira was in her late teens, she’d realized her mom must have experienced several miscarriages.
Once, she’d asked, and all her mom had said was, “Don’t look back.” She’d gripped Kira’s hands and repeated the words then added, “Regret is the sharpest knife.”
In two months, Kira would turn forty, an age when having children became increasingly questionable. Once upon a time, she’d fantasized about having children, but as the years passed, she’d realized it wasn’t something she wanted to do intentionally alone. And that was fine. She wouldn’t live a life of regret if motherhood wasn’t in the cards for her.
She’d seen her mother’s sadness due to biology beyond her control. At times, she’d felt inadequate—she hadn’t been enough for her mother.
She didn’t want any of those feelings to haunt her own future.
Rand settled at a table in the same section of the restaurant as hers. She ignored him as thoughts of a future that would never be and a past that made no sense consumed her.
Don’t look back.
The words took on ominous meaning with all the secrets and lies her parents had maintained.
Now she wondered if her mother had meant the words as a directive, not poetry.
Rand played by Kira’s rules. He wouldn’t invade her space, but he also wouldn’t leave her unprotected. He sat several tables away and ate a chicken dinner he didn’t taste as she dined with an equal lack of enthusiasm.
The real test would come when they returned to the hotel, which happened all too soon. He waited until the crowd thinned and they were alone on the stair-street that was just two blocks from their hotel before he moved in. “Kira, wait. We need to get you a new phone.”
She paused. He took several quick steps to catch up to her. “Maybe there’s a store still open. I can buy a burner.”
“I’ve got one. I just need to get it from the rental car. It’s only a few blocks from here.”
“Fine. You get it and meet me at the hotel.”
It was a good idea to get her off the street now that the sun was setting, and the detour would take at least thirty minutes because he had to make sure he wasn’t followed. “I’ll walk you to the hotel, then get the phone.”
This would mean she’d read the letters without him, but given that she planned to kick him out of her room, that was going to happen anyway. At least this way, she’d have to let him in if she wanted a clean phone, and he’d have a chance to convince her to trust him again.
He accompanied her all the way to the room, climbing six flights of stairs. He quickly searched the space while Kira waited in the entryway. Seeing no sign of intruders, he said, “Clear.”
She moved deeper into the room, and for the first time in hours, they were alone.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
She rubbed her arms. “Just go get me a phone. And it better not be bugged. You aren’t keeping me under surveillance.”
“It’s not bugged to the best of my knowledge. Freya gave it to me at the airport along with cameras, trackers, spider drones like Diana used last December, and listening devices.”
“If it came from FMV, it’s probably bugged.”
“It was intended for my use, not yours, so probably not.”
“I suppose, given that Freya respects you.”
“She respects you.”
