Walking Dead Read Free Page B

hear soon enough. Bakhar Lagidze, his whole family—they were murdered last night.”
     
Alena dropped the teacup she was about to fill. The crash of it shattering in the sink was enough to turn Iashvili's attention back to her. I was grateful for the misdirection. It gave me an extra handful of seconds to set my reaction.
     
“Jesus Christ,” I said.
     
“The children?” Alena asked softly, her voice thickening.
     
“All of them,” Iashvili replied. “I'm very sorry. They were your friends?”
     
I thought about the word. In Georgian, “friend” was megobari , which, loosely translated, meant, I will take your place in times of danger .
     
“Yes,” I told him. “They were.”
     
“I was teaching her to dance,” Alena said. “Tiasa.”
     
“I have to ask,” the chief said. “Did you notice anything unusual? Strangers in the area? A change in Bakhar's behavior?”
     
“No, nothing,” I said. “Everything was… everything was fine. I talked to Bakhar the day before yesterday, we were going to take Koba to the football game in Batumi next week.”
     
“Do you know if he'd bought the tickets?”
     
“I was going to buy them. I was going to get them today.”
     
The chief frowned. At the sink, Alena began gathering pieces of broken crockery.
     
“I'm sorry to say this,” Mgelika Iashvili said. “It looks like Bakhar killed his family, then himself.”
     
     
Alena walked him to the door when he left, waiting there to watch as he drove away. I stayed in the kitchen. Miata trotted over from where he'd been taking the sun through the windows, and I gave him a scratch beneath the chin, stroked his neck. Alena returned and fixed me with a stare that was almost accusatory.
     
“He's lying,” I said.
     
“Of course he's lying,” Alena said. “He's been bought.”
     
“Then he knows who killed them. Maybe he even knows why.”
     
“He certainly knows who paid him.”
     
“And maybe where Tiasa is.”
     
“It's not our problem.”
     
We stared at each other. I understood her anger, though the intensity of it surprised me. I knew what she was thinking. I knew why she was thinking it. I didn't like it, and I didn't go to any great length to hide that fact.
     
“What you did last night was foolish,” she said.
     
“I didn't go over there planning to find the house soaked in blood. I went to help.”
     
“I know that. I know why you went. Just as you know you shouldn't have.”
     
“I'm not going to apologize,” I said.
     
“I don't want an apology. An apology does us nothing. We have a home here, we have built a life. Do you want to have to leave, to run, to find somewhere new and to start again? To spend the years it will take us to rebuild? Do you want to lose all of this?”
     
“The only thing I fear losing is you,” I said.
     
That stopped her, at least for the moment. Affection was still difficult for her, probably always would be, the way it dogs most survivors of abuse. Even though she knew my sincerity, believed it, speaking of it could bring her to moments of confused silence. Love was still a fragile thing for her, despite all its strength.
     
“You should never have gone over there at all.”
     
“I didn't know what I would find,” I said.
     
“It's not a question of what you found! You shouldn't have done it , Atticus!”
     
The mere fact that she'd used my real name was proof of how upset she was. I got out of my chair, went over to her, rested my hands on her arms. When I kissed her forehead, she closed her eyes and put her arms around me.
     
“They were our friends,” I said, holding her.
     
“Yes, they were,” she whispered. “And now they're gone.”
     
     
We spent the rest of the day going about our routines. I made my daily check of the security arrangements, the alarms, did yoga for an hour with Alena, then went for my run, leaving her to work out in the studio.
     
I covered eight miles, down to the water, along the beach. It was