Page 14 of Wayward

It didn’t hurt—I was guessing the IV in my arm was responsible for that. What I did realize when they moved me was that I had a catheter in me.

“We need to take that out,” I told him, and of course, he knew what I meant.

“In a bit, just…look at this first.”

He had whatever he wanted to show me queued up already so all he had to do was hit Play. There was a news report from eight days ago about a car accident downtown. The fire was a surprise.

“The hell?”

“Fire is always good. Makes things final.”

It certainly did. “I’m dead?” I asked him.

“To most. Not to Pasha. Him, I told. Your father, Galina, Lev, the maggots you called your friends, and everyone else—to them, yes.”

“Okay,” I said, a million questions running through my head.

“First, because I know you would worry, Pasha agreed to care for Vanya,” he said and showed me a new video. Pasha visiting Vanya in rehab, and there was a team of reporters with him. “He’s gotten a huge popularity bump with caring for his cousin after losing you, his brother. I understand that he is beloved on Twitter.”

I glanced at him.

He shrugged and shook his head. “Maria, my oldest, she says this is important.”

I couldn’t help smiling. “I knew that wasn’t something you were on top of.”

“No,” he agreed, grinning. “But so you see, Vanya will be safe, yes?”

“Yes,” I replied, sighing deeply. That, at least, was positive. It meant that Vanya now lived under Pasha’s umbrella, which meant that he, like my brother, was untouchable. It was smart of Pasha to do that, to make everything public so Vanya couldn’t simply disappear.

“Your funeral was nice. Many people came.”

“Great,” I said flatly.

There was more video to watch. Shots of my father, my stepmother, and Lev, all crying, with Pasha the only one who appeared truly broken. A reporter spoke to Galina, who said she was leaving for Paris, that she needed to get out of the city since it reminded her of me.

I scoffed.

“Wait,” Sava said, grinning as he pointed at the screen.

Whoever had done the report had tracked her there, in the city of lights, at some café, where she was shown sipping champagne and laughing. As soon as she saw the reporter, she shrieked that she was in mourning.

I glanced at Sava.

“That part is my favorite.”

“You’re a sick man,” I assured him as Sherry lifted the tumbler of water off the end of the table and offered me some more.

“Can you hold that yourself and put it back?” she asked me.

Once I gave her a nod, she smiled and left the room, closing the door behind her.

“Shall I tell you the story now?” Sava asked me.

“Please.”

He huffed out a breath. “Your father was in debt up to his eyeballs to Anton Kolashkov. Did you know?”

“No. How can that be?” That made no sense.