I don’t miss how she winces when I say that name out loud. Oh, there’s definitely stuff here that needs unpacking.
“Well, he didn’t murder me,” she mumbles. “Obviously.”
“Ob-vi-ous-ly,” I back-sass. “But he did take you to France. What the hell is that about?!”
She looks everywhere but at me.
“It’s… complicated,” she sighs at last.
I scowl at her. “You vanished to another continent with a man who may or may not have killed his wife, and ‘complicated’ is the best you can do?”
“Can I at least take a shower first? I smell like booty.” She sweeps a hand over herself and I realize that she’s not just in a dress I’ve never seen before; she’s also dirty, stringy-haired, gaunt, pale. What the hell did the Lazarevs do to her?
“Fine. But I’m timing you. You have fifteen minutes, and then you’
