eating seemed unthinkable. The house beckoned and whispered to her. If she turned her head fast enough, she would catch a glimpse of her former self: a silent scrap of a girl with big, startled eyes magnified behind coke-bottle glasses.
Wind sighed and moaned outside, whipping the pines into a frenzy. Raindrops trickled down the windows by her desk, and bit by bit, the frantic activity and the roar of white noise ceased to shield her from the memories. There had been no other children to play with on Stone Island when she was small. Her father was closeted in the library with his books, or out sailing with only his silver flask as a companion, and more often than not her mother stayed at the apartment in Seattle. Raine had made friends with silence, with trees and water, stones and gnarled roots. The whole island was her own private fantasy landscape, inhabited by dragons and trolls and ghosts. Later, amid the noise and chaos of changing cities and languages, the remembered silence of Stone Island had become like a dream of paradise to her. That fantasy world pulled at her now, whispering in a thousand hushed voices.
Towards the end of the day, Clayborne bustled into the room. “Raine, go to the library, please,” he said importantly. “Mr. Lazar has correspondence that needs to be Fedexed as soon as we get back to the mainland. Go on, hop to it”
She grabbed her notebook and set off, and was halfway there before she realized that she hadn't asked where the library was. A stupid lapse, but too late to fuss about it now.
It was strange how she had forgotten how lonely and chilly Stone Island was. The only warm, colorful thing about the place had been Victor. Compared to her father's detached melancholy and her mother's self-absorption, Victor had been a hot blast of dynamism and danger. She stood in front of the library door, her hand trembling.
Too much dynamism and danger. She pushed the door open.
The familiar room reached out and twined sensuously around her, pulling her in. It was lined with books from floor to ceiling, with tall windows between each bookcase. The windows were adorned by borders of stained glass, designs of curling vines and morning glories, rain-spotted and glowing with the deep blue of early evening.
She stole in to the empty room, drawn by a shelf of photographs that bore the look almost of an altar. There was a photo of Victor and her father as a skinny boy of twelve. The eighteen-year-old Victor was wearing a thin tank top. His muscular arm was flung over his little brother's neck, and a cigarette dangled out of his mouth.
There was a faded pencil portrait of her grandmother, a pretty dark-haired girl with pale eyes, and a photo of her when she was a handsome older woman, from which the portrait that hung over the credenza was copied. Raine studied a school photo of herself, in the sixth grade at Severin Bay Middle School. She remembered the itchy lace on the collar of that hateful green velvet dress.
The last photo was of her father's sailboat. She stood in front of it, along with her mother, Victor and an unknown man. The strange man was dark-haired and handsome, with a thick mustache. He was laughing. Something about him made the back of her neck prickle, but the thought would not rise to the surface. It flashed away, like a fish disappearing into dark water, accompanied by a pang of sharp, sick anxiety. She forced herself to pick up the photo and examine it.
It was a rare sunny day, and her mother was glamorous and beautiful in a yellow halter sundress, her hair tied back with a silk scarf. Victor’s arm was flung over Alix's shoulders, and his other hand was ruffling Raine's hair. She remembered the bathing suit with the green frogs on it, the green frog sunglasses that matched it. Victor had yanked on her braid for some reason, hard enough to bring tears to her eyes. Then his cool, dragging voice, faintly accented, echoed through her memory.
She'd blinked the tears back, glad to have the sunglasses for a shield. She could at least pretend not to cry.
The same frog sunglasses were sitting next to the photograph. She reached for them, convinced that her hand would go right through them like a hologram. They were real. Cold, smooth, hard plastic. She stared down at them, marveling at how small they were. It started in her stomach, a sick roiling. Fear, spiraling wider, higher. Running, screaming. Water. A dizzy green blur; Blind panic.
“Katya,” came a low voice from behind her.
She spun around with a sharp gasp. The glasses dropped to the carpet with a thump. No one but her mother knew her former name. No one had addressed her by it in sixteen years.
Victor Lazar stood in the door, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his fine wool trousers. “Sorry, my dear. I didn't mean to startle you. I seem to be making a habit of it.”
“Yes, you are.” She breathed deeply, trying to stop trembling.
Victor indicated the photo still clutched in her hand. “I was referring to the photograph. The little girl is my niece, Katya.”
“Oh.” Raine placed Hie photo on the shelf. The obvious next move was a polite inquiry as to his niece's well- being. She didn't want to draw more attention to the photo, but with every second that ticked by, her lack of comment drew more attention to it than any comment ever could. “She's... a pretty little girl,” she faltered. “Where is she now?”
Victor picked up the photo and looked at it. “Fm afraid I don't know. I lost touch with her many years ago.”
“Oh. I'm sorry.”
He nodded towards the glasses that lay on the carpet. “I kept those as a memento of her. The same ones she is wearing in the photo.”
She scooped them up and put them back in their place. “Um, excuse me,” she stammered. “I didn't mean to—”
“Think nothing of it.” He gave her a soothing smile. ''Speaking of spectacles, I see you are still wearing your own.”
She was ready for this one. “I'm afraid I don't see well enough to do my work without them.”
“What a pity,” he murmured.
She summoned up a businesslike smile. “So. Shall we begin? I need to hurry if you want the letters Fedexed tonight, so—”
“How goes your fiery romance with our mysterious security consultant?”
She pressed her trembling lips together. “I thought I made myself clear last night. I have nothing to say about—”
“Oh, come now. Last night you told me you never wanted to see him again. He must have made a very strong impression indeed.”
“I am not interested in discussing Seth Mackey. Now or ever.”
“He is using you, too, you know,” Victor said. “Or if he is not, he soon will be, the world being what it is. Does he deserve such stoic loyalty from you just because he is capable of giving you an orgasm?”
He was doing it again; twisting the world around himself like a black hole with his low, insinuating voice. Making her doubt herself. “What you ask is inappropriate,” she said. “This whole conversation is inappropriate.”
Victor's laugh was beautiful, rich and full. It made her tight, nervous voice sounded ineffectual and prissy. It made her feel dull and humorless. A fool for not agreeing with everything he said.
He pointed at the photos. “Look here, my dear.” The faint Russian flavor in his voice intensified into a perceptible accent. “See this? My mother. And this boy here, my little brother, Peter. Nearly forty years ago I ran away from the Soviets. I worked and schemed, made money for the bribes and the papers to bring my mother and brother here. I built this business for them. To do this I made many compromises. I did many, many inappropriate things. One must, because the world is not perfect. One becomes accustomed to it—if one wishes to be a player. And you do wish to be a player, no?”
She gulped. “On my own terms.”
Victor shook his head. “You are not yet in any position to dictate terms, little girl. The first step toward power is to accept reality. Look the truth in the face and you will see your way more clearly.”
She clenched something deep inside herself and resisted the pull of his charisma. “What on earth are you talking about, Mr. Lazar?”
Her voice was clear and sharp. It broke his spell.
He blinked, and an appreciative smile flashed across his face. “Ah. The voice of truth. I talk too much, do I not?”
