Page 53 of Waters that Drown Us

I have to believe she meant it. That there’s still a thread of something good and beautiful stitching us together.

“Okay, how about we discuss it once we kill your father?”

For a second, I think she’ll break with laughter. But she adopts her normal deadpan disdain for my overconfidence, huffing a breath through her nose.

“I’ll think about it,” she replies, and my lungs fill with breathable air again.

That’s not a no. It’s certainly not ajellyfish.

“You two are worse than us,” Gwen mutters, elbowing Charlie in the bicep. He winks at her before surveying the table.

“I think it’s a family trait, the toxic relationships,” he offers, eyeing Deniz who seems completely unperturbed. Actually, he seems to take it as a badge of honor.

“Are you calling your Matriarch's impending marriagetoxic, Carlo?” Clara asks, using a hint of hermatriarchvoice as she chides her brother. He gives her an apologetic look, but doesn’t retract his statement.

“I think we deserve to hear the rest of the story,” Gwen says, scooting closer to Alice. She takes her in like a research subject, like an animal in a cage she’s supposed to observe for science. “I have a million questions.”

“I’m sure you do,” I mutter, earning a kick from Charlie. Alice’s cheeks flush a bit, unused to having this many people speak to her at the same time.

“I’m not sure where to start,” she admits, tucking her hair behind her ears.

“Well, I’ve got a question,” Bea starts, pushing off the wall and placing her palms on the table so she can lean toward Alice. The smallest smile pulls at the corner of her lips. “How in the world did you get rattlesnake venom with no access to the internet?”

And the grin that stretches across Alice’s face is the most beautiful I’ve ever seen.

Chapter 23

Alice

Three Weeks Later

“Once more.”

Nobuko’s voice is soft yet stern, her eyes closed as she waits for me to start again. I place the familiar warm wood of my viola—the same one Emily bought for me twice—under my chin and set the bow against the strings.

I have no idea how Emily got one of the most acclaimed violists alive today to give me lessons, but it seems like her family has endless connections, and I’m not complaining. I play through the piece again, the rhythm so familiar now that I move on muscle memory alone.

My technique is rusty, but the feeling is still there, finally breathing after years of being buried inside me. Music was once my escape, my form of rebellion. But now it feels like I have much less to escape from. Music can be a part of almost any moment I want, rather than only those I keep to myself.

The last few weeks have been…strange. The Costas don’t know what to do with me, but they clearly agree on one thing—we must keep the fact that I’m alive a secret, from my father and the world. To that end, I’ve been staying in a small butcomfortable apartment in Mitaka. It took a few days and about a dozen conversations that felt more like interrogations, but eventually Clara allowed Emily to set me up a private space, under the close and invisible watch of about a dozen Syndicate employees, of course.

For my protection. And to ensure I don’t run.

I suppose I can’t blame them for the extra precaution. I did fake my death to escape a multinational criminal enterprise once before.

The final notes of the piece resonate through my fingers, and I realize I’ve closed my eyes—feeling, more than reading, the music on the stand before me. Nobuko seems pleased, smile restrained but eyes shimmering with understanding.

“You’re improving,” she says simply, a compliment from a giant in this world. “Practice more, especially at the recapitulation.”

I carefully lay my instrument in its case, which is much newer and shinier, at the end of our lesson, feeling like there’s helium filling my lungs. Every time I play, or even see my viola in its case, it’s like a hallucination. Part of me can’t believe that my life has changed so much so quickly, that this beautiful piece of art is mine.

My steps are quick and heavy down the narrow stairwell, and I stumble onto the busy sidewalk, pressing my body against the side of the building to avoid being trampled. It’s rush hour, and after years of relative isolation in Vladivostok, and the otherworldly quiet of Nesika Beach, the overwhelming noise of downtown Tokyo sets me on edge.

I lift onto my toes, craning my neck to find a familiar car idling on the side of the road. She’s never late. Not to pick me up at my apartment, not to drop me off for my lessons, and not to retrieve me when I’m ready to leave.

Emily is smiling, tall and stunning as she holds the passenger door open. My viola case presses against my chest as I snake through the crowd and slip into the seat—the noise blessedly muffled when the door closes.

“Where to?” she asks from back behind the wheel. I still haven’t learned to drive, and I think it’ll be a long time before that’s a priority. There are trains from Mitaka, but Emily has insisted that she’s happy to take me wherever I want to go. And I’ve let her.