Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 82194 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 411(@200wpm)___ 329(@250wpm)___ 274(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82194 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 411(@200wpm)___ 329(@250wpm)___ 274(@300wpm)
Mom had been raped.
Nine months later, I was born.
I want to throw up.
I want to scrub my skin raw and boil my DNA in bleach.
“She never…” My voice falters. “She never talked about my father. Not even once. And I asked, repeatedly.”
Nikolai nods, watching me with that same unsettling pity.
The words keep coming out of my mouth, like water leaking from a faulty pipe. “She told me it had been a difficult time in her life. She dropped out of high school. Got a job as a waitress and applied for legal emancipation, on account of the pregnancy and all.”
He nods again, letting me work it out on my own—and I do. Because for the first time, so much about my mom makes sense. It had always puzzled me how she’d gotten pregnant because as far as I knew, she’d been the polar opposite of a wild teen. Though Mom had rarely talked about herself, I’d gleaned enough to know she’d been a straight-A student prior to dropping out, too quiet and introverted to go out to parties and flirt with boys. Nor had she displayed any interest in dating as an adult; she’d never brought home a single boyfriend, never left me with a babysitter to go out and have fun. As a kid, I thought that was normal, but as I got older, I realized just how strange it was for a beautiful young woman to close herself off like that.
It was as if she’d taken a vow of chastity… or never recovered from the trauma of rape.
“Do you think…” I swallow the sour bile in my throat. “Do you think he knew? About her pregnancy? About… me?”
I always thought my father had simply walked away from the responsibility, though Mom had never said that outright, only implied it. I figured he’d been a teenager himself, someone who just wasn’t ready to be a parent. But this—this changes everything. Mom might not have even told him of my existence. Why would she have, if he’d raped her?
Except… he has to know now.
Because he killed her and tried to do the same to me.
Oh God.
I barely hold back a surge of vomit.
My biological father is not only a rapist—he’s a murderer.
Nikolai takes my hand in his again, his touch shockingly warm on my icy skin. “I think he had to know,” he says, echoing my thoughts. “Maybe not from the beginning, but later on, for sure.”
“Because he tried to kill us.”
“Yes—and because of the scholarship you got.”
I blink, not comprehending at first. Then his words filter through. “You mean… he paid for my college?”
“Konstantin is tracing the exact source of those funds, but I’m almost certain about what he’s going to uncover.” Nikolai’s eyes are somber on my face. “It was a private scholarship, zaychik, intended for only one recipient: you. Remember how you told me that your friend applied for it and didn’t get it, despite being even more qualified than you? That’s because it was never meant for her. That money was yours all along.”
Fuck. He’s right. My friend Tanisha had been our class valedictorian with perfect SAT scores, but she didn’t get this full-ride scholarship to Middlebury—I did. I even told Nikolai how strange that was. Except…
“I don’t understand. Why would he do that? Why would he pay for my education if he hated me and my mom? If he… planned to kill us?” I can barely utter the last words.
Nikolai squeezes my hand. “I don’t know for sure, but I have a theory. I think your mother contacted him at some point and told him about you. And I think she threatened him. It was likely something along the lines of ‘if you don’t provide the funds for our daughter’s education, I’ll go public with my story.’”
“You think she blackmailed him?”
At Nikolai’s nod, I sink deeper into the pillows, shaking my head. “No. No, you’re wrong. Mom wouldn’t have done that. She’s not—she wasn’t…” To my shame, my eyes flood with tears, my throat closing as a wave of crushing grief catches me off-guard.
“A criminal? A blackmailer?” Nikolai’s deep voice is gentle as his thumb massages my palm in soothing circles. Tactfully, he waits until I get myself under control, then says quietly, “You have to remember, zaychik, she was a mother first and foremost. A single mother who worked as a waitress, whose earnings couldn’t have covered even a fraction of the exorbitant costs of college education in this country. What would you have done to ensure your child’s future?”
I would’ve done whatever I had to—and most likely, it had been the same for Mom.
“If that’s true, why did he wait?” I ask in desperation. Some childish part of me is still hoping that this is all a huge misunderstanding, that my biological father isn’t a total monster. “Why pay for all four years of my schooling and then try to kill us? If he’d already spent the money—”