“Based on your DNA and theirs, it seems that the father is… closely related to you.”
I thought I was confused before—but that one really throws me for a loop. I open the file and stare at the results on the paper. I may as well be reading gibberish. None of the numbers, words, or symbols mean anything to me. Disgusted, I close the file and fling it to the floor.
Grigory flinches away from me. “I-I’m sorry, sir.”
“How closely related?”
“Pardon?”
The words are poison coming out of my mouth. It feels like a betrayal even saying it out loud. Then again—genetic makeup doesn’t lie. Science doesn’t lie.
Brothers, on the other hand…
“Is it possible that we’re talking about a… brother?”
“Yes, it’s possible,” Grigory says with a deep sigh.
So Lev or Nikolai. The moment their names take shape in my head, I know who it is. Lev may have the body of an adult but he’s got the mind of a child. And Alyssa would never have crossed that line with him.
But Nikolai?
In a sudden torrent of memory, I recall every instance I walked into her room to find the two of them sitting together, laughing about some inside joke or sharing some sentimental story with each other. Nikolai opened up to her about our childhood. He doesn’t even talk about that shit with me. But with Alyssa… there are different lines drawn in the sand. Or maybe none at all.
My hands ball into fists when I think about Alyssa assuring me that she and Nikolai were just friends. She was pissed at my own anger, matter of fact. The word trust had been bandied about. As though it meant something to her. As though it meant something to him.
Fuck.
Fuck.
FUCK!
“Get out of my way,” I hiss as I charge for the door.
Grigory has the forethought to spring out of my line of fire, but his eyes skewer me just before I leave. “Uri… she’s in a delicate stage of her pregnancy. Confronting her now might not be the best idea.”
Confronting her? Is that what I’m about to do?
I shove Grigory aside and leave the room. Yeah, that’s exactly what I’m about to fucking do. She may be in a delicate situation—but she’s one who put herself there. And now, she’s going to deal with the consequences.
She’s going to face me.
The little thief is going to give me some answers.
51
ALYSSA
I may be seven months pregnant with twins.
I may feel bloated and tired and entirely too heavy.
But in this dress, I also feel like a bride.
Nice as this private hospital room is, there’s no full-length mirror, so there’s a chance I’m just deluding myself. But I do feel good. This is the first time in weeks that I’ve actually felt somewhat like myself.
But that might also have something to do with the phone call I made to my parents a few minutes ago.
The conversation lasted twenty-seven minutes and thirty-three seconds, according to my call log. I’d started with an apology and segued into an explanation. I told them that I was pregnant and that I was getting married.
They were shocked. Then hurt. Then baffled. But they did their best to be understanding. And in their acceptance of all my mistakes, I suppose I found the courage and the grace to be accepting of theirs.
“I just never understood why you didn’t fight her harder. Everyone just sort of accepted the fact that she was going to quit treatment. It felt like you gave up on her.”
Mom’s voice had gone wobbly as she replied, “Oh, honey, we didn’t give up on her. We just realized that fighting her would have robbed us of what little time we did have with her. We decided it was more important to make her happy in her final days than to make ourselves feel better about the situation.”
Then Dad had taken the phone and turned the camera on himself. “She did go back to treatment because you asked her to. Because she loved you that much. And in the end…”
“I know. She died anyway. And she died the way she was trying to avoid—in a hospital room, hooked to a bunch of monitors, drugged up, and completely out of it.” I cried for a bit after that and when I’d finally stopped, I managed to say, “That was my fault. I did that to her.”
“You loved her,” Mom whispered.
“We loved her, too,” Dad said. “We just loved her differently. Sometimes, it felt like you punished us for that.”
He wasn’t completely right. But he wasn’t completely wrong, either. When I apologized, they did, too. They apologized for not being there for me the way they should have been right after Ziva’s death.