Chapter 3 - THE WOMAN WHO DISAPPEARED TWICE
Z
Chloe made me sit in the break room.
She poured tea into a chipped mug, wrapped my hands around it, and sat opposite me without asking for an explanation.
That was one of the reasons I loved her.
Chloe had a gift for recognizing when someone needed company more than questions.
After several minutes, she said, “Do you want me to call somebody?”
I shook my head.
“Your family?”
“My mother died when I was twelve. My father died when I was nineteen.”
Chloe's expression softened.
“I'm sorry. I didn't know.”
“Most people don't.”
She waited.
I told her about the letter in the Russian dictionary. About Elena. About the photograph. About Nikolai's claim that my father's car might have been tampered with before the accident.
I left out the part about the Sokolov name in the letter.
I wasn't ready to say it aloud.
When I finished, Chloe stared at the floor.
“That sounds terrifying.”
“It is.”
“Do you believe him?”
“I don't know.”
“Do you think he could be trying to manipulate you?”
“Yes.”
“Do you think he might actually know something?”
I looked at her.
“Yes.”
She exhaled.
“Then maybe you should find out what he knows without getting yourself killed.”
I laughed once, without humor.
“Excellent advice. Very specific.”
“I'm a waitress, not a detective.”
For the first time that night, I smiled.
Then the manager's office door opened.
Laurent stood there, looking exhausted.
“Aria, Mr. Sokolov has asked that you finish your shift in the main dining room. He won't request you again tonight.”
I frowned.
“He's letting me go?”
“He's letting you work.”
“Those are not the same thing.”
Laurent rubbed his forehead.
“Please don't make me explain the difference to him.”
***
I finished the shift at four in the morning.
When I stepped outside, a black sedan waited at the curb.
A man in a dark coat stood beside it.
“Miss Montgomery?”
I stopped.
“Who wants to know?”
He showed me an identification card. He was a private investigator named Samuel Reed, hired by Nikolai's legal office to look into Elena's disappearance.
“I've been asked to give you something.”
He handed me a sealed envelope.
I didn't take it.
“Why can't Mr. Sokolov give it to me himself?”
“Because he believes you may not trust him.”
“He's perceptive.”
Reed didn't smile.
“The envelope contains a copy of a report concerning your father's accident. It came from an investigator who worked on a related case. The report is incomplete, and some of its findings are disputed.”
I looked at the envelope.
“Why now?”
“Because the investigator who wrote it disappeared three days ago.”
My stomach tightened.
“Another missing person?”
“Yes.”
“Does Mr. Sokolov make a habit of collecting missing people?”
Reed considered that.
“I suspect he'd prefer fewer.”
I took the envelope.
“I'm not promising to help.”
“You don't have to.”
He stepped away from the car.
“One piece of advice, Miss Montgomery. Don't meet anyone alone who claims to know what happened to your father.”
I looked at him sharply.
“Does that include Nikolai Sokolov?”
“It includes everyone.”
Then Reed got into the sedan and left.
***
At home, I locked the door and sat at my kitchen table.
The envelope contained six pages.
The first was a summary of the accident investigation.
The second listed the vehicle's service history.
The third contained a photograph of my father's car, taken at the impound yard.
The fourth showed the underside of the vehicle.
A handwritten note had been added in blue ink.
Possible interference with steering assembly. Inconclusive due to damage sustained during impact.
I read the sentence again.
Then again.
The final pages contained names of people who had been interviewed.
One name appeared twice.
Elena Markovic.
Beside it, someone had written:
Interview postponed at request of federal liaison.
There was no signature.
No explanation.
No record of a follow-up interview.
I sat very still.
My father had died on a Tuesday.
Elena had called our house on Monday night.
The following week, she had vanished from every professional directory I could find.
I had assumed she moved abroad.
Now I wondered whether someone had made certain that she disappeared.
I reached for my phone and searched her name.
The first results were old conference announcements.
A university symposium.
A translation of a Hungarian legal text.
A photograph of Elena standing beside my father at a language conference.
I enlarged the picture.
My father was smiling.
Elena was not.
Behind them stood a younger man in a dark suit.
I recognized him from the photograph Nikolai had shown me.
He was Roman Ivanov.
***
At eight the next morning, I returned to the Luminary.
I told Laurent I needed to speak to Nikolai.
He looked as though I had announced plans to juggle knives in the kitchen.
“Are you certain?”
“No.”
“That's reassuring.”
“Is he here?”
Laurent glanced toward the private elevator.
“Yes.”
“Then I'm going up.”
“Aria—”
I turned.
“I need answers.”
He studied my face, then stepped aside.
The elevator opened onto a quiet corridor.
A guard escorted me into a library overlooking the river.
Nikolai stood by the windows, speaking on the phone in Russian. He ended the call when he saw me.
“You came back.”
“I have questions.”
“So I gathered.”
I placed the report on his desk.
“Why was Roman Ivanov photographed with my father?”
Nikolai looked at the picture.
For the first time since I had met him, he appeared genuinely surprised.
“Where did you get this?”
“That isn't an answer.”
He studied the image for several seconds.
Then he said, “Roman worked for my father at the time. He handled security for several international business meetings.”
“Was my father at one of those meetings?”
“I don't know.”
“Did Elena work for your family?”
“Not officially.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means she was sometimes hired as an independent interpreter. She worked with corporations, government contractors, and private clients. She did not belong to any one organization.”
I crossed my arms.
“Did my father translate for your family?”
Nikolai paused.
“Once.”
The word struck harder than I expected.
“When?”
“Seven years ago.”
The same year my father died.
I stared at him.
“What was the meeting about?”
“Shipping contracts and an international arbitration dispute. I was not present.”
“Who was?”
“My father. Roman. Elena. Several lawyers. Your father.”
I felt the room grow smaller.
“Why didn't you tell me that last night?”
“Because I didn't know until this morning.”
“Convenient.”
He accepted the accusation without reacting.
Then he opened a drawer and removed a photograph.
It showed my father standing beside a younger Nikolai, who looked barely twenty-five.
My father was speaking.
Nikolai was listening.
On the back, in my father's handwriting, were five words.
Truth is never a private language.
I covered my mouth.
I remembered those words.
He had said them to me when I was seventeen, after I asked why he bothered learning languages that nobody in Ohio seemed to speak.
I looked at Nikolai.
“What happened at that meeting?”
His expression hardened.
“Someone stole a document. Someone else lied about where it went. And a man who worked for my father was arrested for a crime he claimed he hadn't committed.”
“Who?”
“Alexei Sokolov. My uncle.”
I stared at him.
Nikolai continued.
“My father believed Alexei had betrayed the family. Alexei insisted the evidence was fabricated. Your father translated a statement that might have proved one of them was lying.”
“And then my father died.”
“Yes.”
I swallowed.
“Was it an accident?”
Nikolai didn't answer immediately.
Then he said, “I don't know.”
For some reason, the honesty frightened me more than a threat would have.
“Who has the original statement?”
“That's what Elena was trying to find.”
I looked at the photograph of my father.
May you like
And finally understood that the mystery surrounding his death had never really disappeared.
It had simply waited for someone to ask the right question.
