Page 43 of Scarlet Thorns

An hour passes.

Questions, photographs, evidence collection.

When the house finally empties, when the last police car disappears into the dawn, I’m alone with the silence and the weight of what I’ve lost tonight.

I sit on the couch where I found her, staring at the cushions where my future died. The cord is gone— evidence now— but I can still see it, can still imagine the final moments when Galina realized what was happening.

Did she fight? Did she call for me? Did she wonder where her husband was while someone stole her breath?

The guilt crushes me in ways that feel like drowning in concrete— heavy, inescapable, filling every breath with the taste of my own failure. This is agony without end, a punishment that no amount of blood or vengeance can ever wash away.

I failed her.

I failed my son.

I failed at the one thing I thought I might actually be good at— protecting the people I love.

My phone buzzes with messages I can’t read, calls I can’t answer. The world keeps spinning, business keeps moving, but I can’t seem to make myself care about anything beyond this moment, this room, this overwhelming certainty that I deserved this. I brought this upon myself. I brought this uponthem.

The universe has a sense of justice after all. It took away my redemption the same night I threw it away. But why them? Why do the innocent have to bleed for the monster I chose to become?

In the growing light of morning, I finally understand what it means to lose everything that matters. I finally know what it feels like to be truly broken.

And somewhere out there, the person who did this is still breathing. Still living in a world where my wife and son can’t.

That’s going to change.

Whatever it takes, however long it takes, whoever I have to kill— that’s going to change one day.

The sun rises over Boston like it’s just another day, like nothing has changed. But everything has changed. Everything that mattered is gone.

And I’m still here, still breathing, still carrying the weight of sins that can never be forgiven.

I close my eyes and let the guilt wash over me like a tsunami wave. I let it mark me as the kind of man who loses everything he touches, because he doesn’t deserve to keep it.

The kind of man who can never love anyone without killing them.

Chapter Seventeen

Ilona

The morning after feels like swimming through honey— everything slow, thick, weighted with the memory of his hands on my skin.

I barely slept. Every time I closed my eyes, I was back in Room Five, feeling the heat of his mouth against my throat, the way he filled me so completely I forgot my own name.

My body hums with a restless energy that has nothing to do with exhaustion. Even now, twelve hours later, I can feel the ghost of his touch between my thighs.

I ended up touching myself again in the darkness of my bedroom, fingers working frantically as I replayed every moment. The memory of his thick length stretching me open, the low growl he made when I clenched around him. I came so hard I had to bite my pillow to muffle the sound, but it wasn’t enough. Nothing will ever be enough now that I know what real desire feels like.

He’s awakened something in me I didn’t know existed. Some desperate part of myself that craves his possession like oxygen. The slip of paper with his VanishMe contact burns like a brand in my jewelry box, a secret door to a world I’m both terrified and desperate to enter.

But today is Saturday, and reality intrudes with all its mundane demands. I need to see my parents. Need to tell them about the endometriosis diagnosis, about the grandchildren they might never have. The conversation will be difficult, but Dad will understand. He’s always understood everything about me.

I try calling them as I get dressed, but neither picks up. Strange, but not alarming— they probably went out for oneof their romantic dinners. Dad still brings Mom flowers every Friday, still opens doors for her like they’re newlyweds instead of a couple married for thirty years. Their love story has always been my template for what relationships should look like.

The drive to their house in Beacon Hill takes longer than usual, Saturday morning traffic crawling through streets lined with historic brownstones and carefully maintained gardens. Their house sits at the end of a tree-lined avenue. I’ve always felt proud pulling into this driveway, knowing I come from this solid foundation. Dad worked his way up from nothing, building a practice that serves Boston’s elite while never forgetting his humanitarian roots. He volunteers at free clinics, donates to children’s charities, makes time for patients who can’t afford private care.

He’s everything I want to be— successful, compassionate, beloved by everyone who knows him.