Chapter 2 - The Woman in the Photograph
“Keep it.”
Aliyah stared at him.
Victor Malenkov had spoken quietly, yet the two words seemed louder than the tray hitting the floor.
“I can’t.”
“You can.”
“It belonged to your wife.”
“I know exactly who it belonged to.”
Something in his voice stopped her.
Victor stood, buttoned his jacket, and turned toward the door. Two men in black coats immediately followed.
Aliyah watched him disappear into the rain.
Only then did her manager breathe again.
“Do you have any idea what you just did?”
“Dropped soup?”
“You touched Victor Malenkov.”
“Technically, gravity touched Victor Malenkov. I was just involved.”
Her manager did not laugh.
His face had gone pale.
Aliyah looked at the bloodstained linen around her hand.
“Who is he?”
The manager glanced toward the windows.
“A man you should forget.”
That should have been the end of it.
It wasn't.
At eight the next morning, Aliyah sat through pharmacology with three hours of sleep and Victor’s handkerchief tucked inside her backpack.
By noon, she had convinced herself the previous night had been nothing more than an accident involving a frighteningly wealthy man with a tragic past.
At twelve fifteen, a black sedan began following her.
Aliyah noticed it outside campus.
She saw it again outside the bookstore.
At six, it was across from her apartment.
Her fear finally overcame her exhaustion.
She marched across the street and knocked on the tinted passenger window.
It lowered.
The man behind the wheel looked embarrassed.
“Ms. Brooks.”
“You've been following me.”
“Protecting you.”
“From what?”
He hesitated.
Aliyah folded her arms.
“Tell Mr. Malenkov that if he wants to stalk me, he can at least do it himself.”
The driver almost smiled.
The rear door opened.
Aliyah froze.
Victor was sitting inside.
“Get in.”
“No.”
His eyebrow moved.
“You have an impressive relationship with that word.”
“And you have a disturbing relationship with giving orders.”
“Someone deliberately pushed that chair into your path last night.”
The humor vanished.
“What?”
Victor held out a phone.
Security footage from the Red Lion played across its screen.
Aliyah watched herself approaching table nine.
Then she saw it.
A man seated near the aisle extended his foot and pushed a chair leg directly into her path.
“That wasn't an accident,” Victor said.
“Why would anyone do that?”
“They weren't trying to hurt you.”
His eyes hardened.
“They were trying to see what I would do.”
Aliyah slowly entered the car.
Victor showed her a photograph of the man.
“His name is Anton Belov.”
“Should that mean something to me?”
“No. And I intended to keep it that way.”
“Intended?”
Victor looked out the window.
“Belov worked for a man who spent twelve years believing I had no weaknesses.”
Aliyah understood.
“And now?”
“Now he thinks he found one.”
Her stomach tightened.
“I fell on you once.”
“To men like Belov, once is enough.”
“Then tell him he's wrong.”
“I have.”
“And?”
“He doesn't believe me.”
Aliyah laughed once without humor.
“Fantastic.”
Victor studied her injured hand.
“I'm arranging security.”
“No.”
“Aliyah—”
“You don't know me well enough to reorganize my life.”
“I know enough.”
“Really? What's my favorite food?”
Victor said nothing.
“My middle name?”
Silence.
“What am I studying?”
“Nursing.”
She blinked.
“Where do I work?”
“The Brattle Book Shop three afternoons a week, the Red Lion four nights, and occasionally St. Matthew’s senior center on Sundays.”
Aliyah stared.
Victor seemed to realize his mistake.
“That is incredibly creepy.”
“It was necessary.”
“You investigated me?”
“After last night.”
“Why?”
His expression became unreadable.
“Because you touched me.”
The sentence landed differently than she expected.
Not threatening.
Almost ashamed.
Victor looked away.
“For twelve years, physical contact has been… difficult.”
Aliyah remembered the terror in his face.
“You weren't afraid of me.”
“No.”
“You were afraid of remembering her.”
Victor's jaw tightened.
“Her name was Elena.”
The embroidered E suddenly felt heavier inside Aliyah's bag.
“What happened?”
“Car accident.”
Something in his delivery felt rehearsated.
She noticed.
Nursing school had taught her to listen not only to words but pauses, breathing, eyes.
Victor believed what he had said.
But not completely.
“Was anyone else in the car?”
His gaze snapped toward her.
“No.”
The answer came too quickly.
Before Aliyah could press him, Victor's phone rang.
He listened for ten seconds.
Then his entire demeanor changed.
“Where?”
Another pause.
“Don't touch anything.”
He ended the call.
“What happened?”
Victor looked at her.
“Someone broke into my house.”
Aliyah waited.
“They took nothing.”
“That doesn't make sense.”
“They left something.”
He showed her a photograph that had just arrived.
It showed Victor's bedroom.
On his pillow lay a fresh white rose.
Beside it was a Polaroid photograph.
Victor and Aliyah.
At the pub.
Taken seconds after he caught her.
Across the bottom, someone had written:
SHE LOOKS LIKE ELENA.
Aliyah's blood went cold.
But Victor wasn't looking at the words.
He was staring at the handwriting.
“Victor?”
His face had become almost colorless.
“I know that handwriting.”
“Whose is it?”
May you like
He raised his eyes.
“My wife's.”
