“You should have done that from the start,” I intone coldly from where I stand above him.
The miserable wretch coughs into his lap, eyes downcast. “I know. I know! I’m sorry, Mr. Lazarev. But please…”
I turn away from him. The concrete walls of the basement are sweating condensation. The single bulb overhead drones like a mosquito is trapped in the glass.
Eighteen years. That’s how long I’ve kept this buried. And now, because of a few idiots with a jackhammer and this fool of a morgue tech, some reporter is sniffing around, asking questions that could unravel everything.
I think about Elena. Not her face or her voice, though—I can’t bear to reflect on the parts of her I knew.
I just remember her in the red dress.
“Clean this up,” I tell Afon.
The man starts screaming before I even r
