“Nothing bad. I sent a message for Reuben, using Aleksandr’s computer.”

He kissed her again, lingering a moment longer. He whispered, but the earbuds would catch his words for the team in Virginia. “For Reuben? Why for him?”

She pressed her mouth to his and slipped her tongue between his lips. He responded lightly, then pulled back and waited for her whispered answer, delivered directly into his earbud microphone. “He promised me if I sent the message, she wouldn’t come. But it had to be from Aleksandr’s computer, or it wouldn’t work.”

He moved to press his lips to her ear. “What did the message say?”

“Gibberish. Something about German children or chocolate and a small stream.”

Kinder—the last name of the gunman—meant children in German. It was also a popular brand of chocolate made in Germany. He’d bet money that stream and creek could be used as interchangeably in Russian as they could in English. Little Creek.

He slid a hand down her back and over her butt, hating the action, but he needed to keep her on the hook as he asked the last question. “When did you send this message?”

“Monday? No. Tuesday. Why does it matter? She is here. Reuben lied.”

No. Reuben hadn’t lied, but he had failed.

Chapter Forty-Nine

Reuben dropped down on the plush bench across from Kira. Her portrait was behind him, and she faced the painting along with her hostile brother. It was strangely comforting to have it in the room, as if their mother was with them too.

“You wish I’d stayed dead, but now that I’m alive, you might as well use me to cut a deal with Grigory, is that the idea?”

“Make lemonade out of lemons…silver linings. Choose your cliché.”

She was the lemon and the cloud. That was fine. She wasn’t exactly thrilled with his renewed presence in her life, but strangely, he scared her less than Luka did.

Her thoughts about Reuben were beyond complicated.

“This is all surreal,” she said, deciding to be honest. “I remember you. I remember us. You were a good big brother. I wish you’d told me at the gallery on Friday instead of playing games.”

“But you always loved my games.”

“I was three.”

“Closer to four.”

“I’ll take your word for that. It’s a confusing jumble in my mind.”

“You were a brat who insisted on hogging all Mama’s attention.”

She shrugged. “Sorry?”

He pressed a hand to his heart. “At last, the apology I’ve waited for since you stole our mother from me.”

And there it was, the crux of the hate that emanated from him. Beneath the hostility was so much pain. “I have a feeling, Reuben, that the blame there lies in our biological father. I’m certain she never would have left you if not for him.”

“Your so-called father, more like it.”

She couldn’t actually argue that, much as she wanted to. She remembered their mom kissing her dad in the villa. How long had the affair lasted before she left?

“No doubt he played a role, but she wouldn’t have left you if she had a choice.” Perhaps someday she’d tell Reuben about all the empty cradles in their mother’s paintings. Her underlying sadness that she’d claimed was due to not having more children.

She figured Reuben wasn’t ready to hear that yet.

“She did have a choice.” His eyes, a hazel so like her own, bore into her. “I remember that day, you know.”

His hostility was tangible. She felt it like a physical manifestation—a gas that expanded to fill the space allotted. The room choked with it, and she found it hard to breathe.

But she needed to hear this as much as he needed to say it. “Tell me.”

“The day you and Mama died, it was unbearably hot. But that’s Malta in summer. Mama took us out on a boat to catch the breeze. The cook packed us a lunch with my favorite foods. We had sodas and ice cream packed in bricks of ice.”

Much as she wanted to hear this—it might spark her own memories—she also wanted to dive across the gap between benches and cover his mouth with her hand. To stop the horror from being said aloud.

She wanted to continue to love her mother. Love her father.

There was a lot to fear in Reuben’s account of what could only be described as one of the worst days of his life.

“Mom chose a Luzzu without a motor. A blue-and-yellow one. Traditional. She insisted on paddling. Just the three of us. I should have known she was planning something. She hadn’t gone out in a boat with me since…” He made a pained sound, then continued, “Not since you were born. I should have guessed, but I was so happy. To be included. To go out on the water with Mama. She said she wanted a fun day with her babies. I took umbrage at that, naturally. I was nine. But Mama wanted to spend time with both of us, so I didn’t complain. She’d been ill and wouldn’t let me see her for days and days. But now she wanted my attention again.”

Kira steeled herself for what was to come. Reuben had been a sweet boy. She believed that, even though there was no sweetness left in him. He was all hard edges and anger now.

She thought of Rand, a Navy SEAL. A warrior, trained to kill and who had done so unflinchingly. Last week was just the most recent and the only one she knew about for certain, but he’d admitted as much. Still, there was a kindness and humanity in him that she couldn’t see in her brother.

She had little doubt the events of that long ago August day had shaped the man Reuben had become. The trauma combined with the fact that his mother was no longer a tempering influence. He had only Luka as parent after that day.

“We’d been out for some time. At least, it felt that way to me. We were deep in the harbor, near the mouth of the sea. None of us were wearing life jackets. I remember being so pleased she didn’t make me put one on. It was a first. I begged to have my ice cream before my pastizzi, and Mama agreed when I pointed out it would melt while the pastries would not. I felt so clever.”

His mouth tightened, and she knew he was back on the boat. Not seeing Kira or the art that surrounded him. He was in the harbor, near the mouth of the sea, on a scorching hot August day.

“You opened the cooler to get the ice cream and…I’ve gone over this part in my head thousands of times, trying to figure out if my first thought was true. But now, with you here, I’m certain. Mama pushed you from the boat.”

Kira swallowed. She didn’t remember—it remained a black hole in her mind—but it made sense. Her one remnant of that day was a fear of deep water and swimming, which her dad helped her overcome.

At the same time, her mom had never, not once in Kira’s memory, gone near water or climbed aboard a boat.

“Mama shouted. She was so upset. Then she leapt from the boat after you. Dove down. I watched the water in shock and horror, and she didn’t… She never came up. So I dove in after. To find my mama. Find my sister.”

A tear slipped down Kira’s cheek. Her brain unleashed a mantra of nos that would not stop what was coming.

“I dove down, searching. I was a good swimmer. Strong. I went down again and again. Coming up to breathe, then I’d dive again, pushing myself deeper and deeper. I don’t know how many times that happened before suddenly, there was Mama, grabbing me and swimming with me back to the boat, which had drifted. I fought her as she shoved me over the gunwale. I shouted that I needed to find you. Save my sister. I jumped back in again, and that’s when she grabbed me and slapped me, hard. She again shoved me over the gunwale and told me to stay in the boat. She would save you. I needed to wait in the boat, to grab you when she handed you over. And then she slipped below the water, and I never saw either of you again.”

The tears were now a flood. “I’m sorry, Reuben.”

“I drifted for hours, watching the water. The ice cream melted along with the blocks of ice that protected it. Finally, Papa sent a boat out to find us—me—and I was rowed back to shore. I had the worst sunburn of my life and was dangerously dehydrated. I’m told I fought them from bringing me in. I was determined to watch the water so I could be there to grab you when Mama came back.”