Forty-Three

Maria

Mikhail’s words send me reeling. When Larissa told me he blamed himself for his mother’s death, I had no idea that it was something like this. But just like everything he tells me, even this answer leaves me with more questions.

And I’ve come too far now to turn back from finding out the rest.

“How?” I ask.

His grip on my hand doesn’t change, but he looks at me with such intensity that I can feel his stare crushing my bones into dust. My heartbeat picks up from his stare, but I don’t look away.

“She threw herself off the terrace.” His voice is low. And even at this volume, I can hear it cracking slightly. “Eighteen years ago.”

He looks away, turning his eyes—shimmering in the dim light—toward the painting of the woman. There’s no mistaking the guilt in his gaze as he looks into the soft eyes of his mother, forever memorialized on canvas.

The world spins around me as I struggle to find the words—any words—to say back to him. But what are the right words when someone says somethin