Chapter 6 Episode 6-1

I flush even harder than before. I know my body hates me, because the mere mention of “boyfriend”coming out of Lukas Lazarev's makes my thighs press together and my n*****s tighten beneath my bralette. “That's not appropriate.” After a frustrating minute-long staring contest, I snap out, "No, I don't." I'll say anything to hurry along this excruciating conversation. Lukas continues to seem unbothered. “Have you ever?” “Ms. Everett, ”he interrupts. “I don't ask questions I don't need answers too.” I swallow hard. For some reasons, I answer his ridiculous question. “Not really. Nothing serious.” That's a lie, croons an ugly little demon in my head. “Nothing at all ”is the real answer. Go on, tell him, tell him how you watched from the sidelines while life for the normal kids going ahead and left you behind. Tell him how badly it burned you up inside to see all of them date and laugh and live and love and f**k and kiss and hold hands and cuddle and comfort each other. Tell him how you never got any of that, and tell him how, the one time you tried, it all went wrong, and your big reward was a pair of matching coffins and a brother fraying at the seams. Tell him the truth, Rae. Lukas watches me. I can't tell what he's looking for, but whatever it is, he seems to find it. I stare at him. “That's it?” “For now,”he gestures toward the door. “Your desk is outside. All the documents you need have been pre-loaded onto the computer.” “But you haven't tell me anything! I don't know what I'm supposed to do.” “You're a smart girl. You'll figure it out.”He couldn't be less concerned. “Lukas.” He’s already turning back to his laptop. “You’ll call me Lukas, Ms. Everett.” I stand on shaky legs. My head is spinning. I have more questions now than I did when I walked in. But he’s turned to face the window, and the message is beyond clear: "how did elena lazareva die" That night, I do what any self-respecting millennial would do when faced with a spooky new boss who knows way too much about her personal life: I get my battle station ready: curled up on my couch with my laptop balanced on my knees and a glass of cheap wine sweating on the coffee table. The search results load. I scroll. The first page is all corporate stuff. Bland press releases and board announcements. I find a few articles from business magazines with milquetoast titles like “Lazarev Global Expands Into Southeast Asian Markets” and “Chairman Steps Back, Son Takes Helm.” The photos are what I expected, too. Whether he’s shaking hands with a senator or cutting a ribbon for some new development, he’s dressed to the nines, massive, and unsmiling. The second page is more of the same. So’s the third. But on the fourth page, there’s one photo that makes me pause. It’s older. The colors are faded and the resolution is grainy. Lukas is younger in it, maybe mid-thirties, and he’s standing next to a woman. She’s beautiful, with thick, dark hair swept into an elegant updo and pale skin luminous against a deep red gown. She’s not smiling, either. The caption reads: Lukas Lazarev and wife Elena at the 1998 Metropolitan Opera Gala. Wife. Lukas’s wife. My pulse quickens for reasons I either can’t or won’t explain. I click around some more, until I find an obituary from 2007. Elena Lazareva, wife of businessman Lukas Lazarev, passed away on March 15th after a brief illness. She was 42. That’s all there is. There are no details about what kind of illness took her so young. Grieving family members offer no memories of what a generous or brilliant or gorgeous woman she might’ve been. According to this, she lived a full and complete life that just so happens to fit into two of the most boring sentences I’ve ever read. I do the math in my head. Eighteen years ago. Kir would have been what, eleven? Twelve? There’s no mention of him anywhere that I can see.