I shrugged. “A delivery guy, I think. Said he saw Amy at Vlad's a few times.”
My dad laughed. “Oh, Jax, my boy, you know the women from our side are forbidden from ever setting foot there, whoever said this was mistaken.”
Which was true. Not one Murdoch woman, by blood, name or otherwise, ever saw or stepped inside The Mansion. We protected our women. They didn't need to know this shit. But still, the thought was itching at me, like some kind of memory I couldn't decipher if it was real or not.
“And besides,” my father went on, “who on earth there would Amy chose over Carter?”
Again, he made a fair point. Amy was an absolute firecracker. Could have had any man she'd wanted. Would she have chosen Vlad? Or Jozef? Perhaps one of them had been blackmailing her.
I groaned, rubbing a hand across my stubbled jaw. “Either way, pops, find out who that delivery guy was, and question him; at this point, we need all the information we can get.”
“Speaking of, my boy, we've had her cell checked - it's clean, nothing untoward whatsoever.”
I thought for a moment. “How's my boy doing, pops? Has he told you what the 'It' is yet?”
I could feel the shake of my father's head done the line. “No, son, but don't you worry, your mother and I are keeping a good eye on him. Time, son, he just needs time.”
“And justice,” I added.
“Jaxon, get some sleep if you've got time, I'll keep you updated and vice versa regarding Amy's funeral; we will all want to pay our respects.”
We said goodbyes, and I slumped on to the bed, lighting a cigarette, words, theories, reasons, and excuses buzzing around my mind, an irritating anxiety that just wouldn't fuck off.
It left a bitter taste in my mouth - thinking of the Chro's carrying out Amy's post mortem, it should have been us Murdoch's for Christ's sake. They'd never bothered with a stiff of ours before, so why now? Why her? What were they hiding?
That morning, as the sun continued to rise, the morning birds singing, I'd made a vow to myself - to do my job and keep my brains intact, but I was not leaving, or dying, without finding the fucking truth of what happened to her.
Later that day, just before I was due to patrol the grounds, I'd found Vladimir alone in the library, white powder covering the oak table, a half-empty bottle of Scotch. I'd apologized for intruding, but he'd invited me to sit with him a while.
He poured me a drink, a measure much smaller than his, and regarded me for what felt like hours.
Today he wore a pale pink shirt with dark purple flowers, combat shorts, and bare feet. He looked ridiculous, but you could tell he'd once been a good looking sonofabitch. The graying dark hair, deep-set eyes, now the liquor, drugs, and blood he'd spilled were taking their toll on my new boss. He looked washed out. Greasy. Sleazy.
“How are you finding my home so far?” He smiled, showing his crooked teeth and opened his arms wide, proud as fucking punch.
“It's incredible. Big - but incredible.”
“Ah, soon enough, you'll know where everything is. Even my wife sometimes gets confused after all these years.” He sipped his drink.
“And how is she today?”
He stilled for a moment, brow pulling together.
“You mentioned yesterday that she'd been feeling unwell?” I added.
Swallowing down his drink, he nodded. “Ah yes, she's much better, thank you. Nothing a good night's sleep couldn't fix.”
I paused, debating whether to say what was on my mind. I must have paused a bit too long because Vlad asked the question for me.
“You're concerned because you've not seen her today, is that correct?” His slurred speech from the alcohol made his heavy Slovak accent harder to understand. But, cautiously, I nodded.
Vladimir stood, stretched, and then walked towards a bookshelf, from which he pulled a thick photo album of some kind. Its cover was a beautiful red leather, and I frowned. Fair enough, I thought, he's got my attention.
Resuming his seat, he opened the first page, spinning the book to an angle so we both could see the photographs.
The first one was of a young child, red-haired blue eyes and extremely malnourished. She wore a nightdress which showed the bones of her arms, her collarbones, the joints in her fingers. The room she was in was empty. Cell-like.
“That's my wife.” He declared, poking a chubby finger at the image. “A day after she came into my possession.”
Possession? Fucking animal. She couldn't have been no older than thirteen. It was hard to tell because of how underfed she so obviously had been. “My sweet wife was born into a world she'd not deserved. I saved her. I took her from two people who were more interested in sticking needles in their arms than nurturing their child.”
My stomach churned at his words. He believed each one that came from his perverted mouth, but I knew the truth. She'd been fucking groomed. Snatched. Tossed into a world that had been no less evil.
Vladimir turned the page. In this photo, Ella looked much healthier, although still young, taken in the same spot. Again, she wore a nightdress, but she seemed almost healthy, although her blue eyes screamed unheard and unspoken words.
“This was taken six months after. She'd still scream and fight, beg and plead, but we had to condition her, you see?”
I nodded, but I didn't fucking see, not through the red mist. The way he spoke, it was so detached.
Turning the page a few more times, he landed on a picture of Ella much older, Nineteen, twenty perhaps, and the sight of it made me want just to kill the prick, then and there.
Ella was naked, chained to a bed, her beautiful hair a mess, a needle hanging from the crook of her arms, blood pooled between her legs, and her perfect fucking face was black and blue.
Grinning at me, he prodded the photo and spoke. “And this is what happens when she makes a fool of me, Murdoch. And yesterday, she did just that.” closing the book, he leaned back in his chair and poured another drink for himself. “So, don't you worry about my wife, huh? I hired you to keep me and my home safe. That stupid bitch is none of your concern.”
I had never felt anger like it. It was potent, and I could almost taste the violence of it on my tongue, it was like a thick oil choking my lungs. But I couldn't react. I couldn't let on what I honestly thought, and so, with all the human strength I contained, I changed the subject.
“Sir, if it's okay, while we're alone, I'd like to discuss Amy.”
He bristled, only a minute movement, but I fucking saw it. “Of course, my boy, what do you want to know?”
I ignored the 'my boy' and the reminder it gave me of my father and manned up.
“I'd just like to know if there are any updates? Any idea who was responsible? And, well, if there's a date for the funeral yet.” I downed my drink, needing something to take the edge off.
“We got the post mortem results back this morning, but Jaxon, I'm not sure you want to know the grisly details. As for who done it, your guess is as good as mine. Did she have any enemies?”
I couldn't keep the incredulous look from my face. I felt my lip turn up, my nose scrunch. “With all due respect, sir, she was a twenty-nine-year-old woman with an attitude at times, but that doesn't explain what happened to her. This was personal, sir, someone who knew what they were doing. Her life, much as it could be, was normal, so far away from Purgatory.”