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“She was sitting in the park, alone, looking distraught. She pulled a puzzle box from her purse, and as I drew closer, I saw her pull out a photo of a woman. She muttered something about wondering why her father had a picture of the woman hidden in a puzzle box.”
“I’m assuming there is something interesting about it?”
“The puzzle box, for one thing,” Konstantin says. My phone dings. “It’s a hand-carved Ofeliya Zorin puzzle box. Just sent you the photo.”
“Tara’s mother and Gavriil’s aunt are good friends. She could’ve given it to the Crafts,” I point out.
“Maybe,” Konstantin says. “But the picture of the woman she was holding was Anya Novikov.”
That gets my attention. “There are a lot of pictures of Anya. She is well known worldwide, being the Jewel of Russia.”
“I thought of that too,” Konstantin continues. “I followed Tara from the park to a storage unit where she was fiddling through a box. When she left, I checked it out and found a picture of her mother and father.”
“I thought you checked them both out,” I say. “Isn’t the father dead and the mother the headline burlesque dancer at the Ember Club?”
“Correct. There were no red flags there,” Konstantin confirms. “But this is the first time I’ve seen what Tara’s late father looked like.”
“And?” My knuckles whiten against the stone.
My phone pings again.
“See for yourself.”
I swipe the notification open and stare.
My stomach flips. No fucking way.
The resemblance isn’t just close. It’s undeniable. Leonid Zorin! According to the files I’d seen, the man had died over twenty years ago.
“What the hell are you saying?”
“That maybe Tara’s father wasn’t who he said he was. And that maybe, just maybe, Tara Craft isn’t who she thinks she is either.”
“Why keep a picture hidden in a puzzle box of Anya Novikov?” I hit back another question.
“Do you remember the news about the Morozovs?” Konstantin jogs my memory. “Anya and her husband, General Morozov, lost their daughter, granddaughter, and son-in-law in a house fire over twenty years ago.”
“You think the son-in-law was Leonid Zorin?”
“The Morozovs were always careful not to bring their family into the limelight,” Konstantin reminds me. “Not much was known about their children except that night of the house fire.”
“I need to find articles from back then on the fire,” I mutter.
“Already had someone do it,” Konstantin tells me. “There was not much mentioned in there, and no names for the daughter, husband, and child.”
“Fuck!”
“Do you want me to look into it?” Konstantin offers.
“No. Stay on Irina and Tara, but I need you to do a deep dive on Carla Craft,” I order. “I want to know everything there is about the Craft family. I’ll handle the Zorin and Morozov part.”
“Understood.”
I end the call and stare at the wall in front of me. The mortar in the cracks. The raw bone of stone beneath my hand. I need to breathe, but all I can do is brace myself and open the damn photos.
The first image loads.
Tara. Her head tipped back against Gavriil’s shoulder. Her eyes are closed, her lips parted in soft sleep—or worse—contentment.