All the Secrets We Keep (Quarry Book 2) Read online

  The house was full of people and the buzz of conversation. Theresa had been helping Babulya serve food while Ilya and Niko, typical boys, snitched booze from the table and didn’t help at all.

  She found Ilya in the upstairs bathroom, the door unlocked. He’d probably been puking, although he stood in front of the toilet, not hunched over it. He looked at her when she came in.

  “Sorry,” she said automatically. “I didn’t know you were in here.”

  “I don’t want to be in here,” Ilya said. “I want to be anywhere but here.”

  “Maybe you should go to bed.” She was used to dealing with her father when he needed to be put to bed, but Ilya proved more difficult to maneuver. He wouldn’t go. Stubborn, he dragged his feet and stumbled against her, pushing her into the wall of the hallway hard enough to leave a bruise she found later on the outside edge of her elbow. “Stop it!”

  Ilya hung his head, swaying. He muttered something she couldn’t make out and again pulled his arm from her grasp when she tried to tug him down the hall to his bedroom. Exasperated, she let go of him as he stumbled toward the attic door and the steps beyond. She should have let him trip on them and hurt himself. She should have left him alone.

  She followed, instead, making sure he got up the stairs and into the army cot beneath the eaves without hitting his head on the slanting rafters. His eyes closed at once, but his hand gripped hers and wouldn’t let go. He gave a single sobbing breath before his fingers relaxed.

  Theresa sat with him for a few more minutes, watching the way his lips parted, his brows furrowed. Ilya’s face contorted with grief even in unconsciousness. Her own heart twisted at the sight. Somehow, she felt worse for Ilya than for anyone else.

  Downstairs, the murmuring began when Theresa brought a new platter of sliced cheese and deli meat to the dining room. Her dad had burst into braying, gasping sobs. Seated, his face buried in his hands, he raked at his hair and clutched at his own skin while he rocked back and forth. His pain was palpable and embarrassing to everyone in the room, because everyone knew there was no good reason for Barry Malone to be so distraught about a girl he barely knew.

  Nobody stepped forward to comfort him, not even his wife, who turned her back with a shake of her head. Galina caught Theresa’s gaze from across the room. A dip of chin, accompanied by a small narrowing of her eyes, was a signal for Theresa to come and deal with her father, but what could she do? He was a grown-up. She was a kid. This wasn’t her job.

  Still, someone needed to get him out of there. He was making everyone uncomfortable. Causing a scene.

  “C’mon, Dad.” Theresa tugged at his arm.

  Her father looked up at her with red-rimmed eyes. “Hey, kiddo. C’mere. Let your old dad give you a hug. I’m so glad you’re here. You know that? You know how lucky I am?”

  “Dad.” She tugged his arm again, her own face heating with the weight of everyone’s eyes on her. “Let’s go outside, get some fresh air.”

  In the backyard, her father pulled her into an awkward, suffocating embrace. He muttered incoherently. Grateful she was alive, that nothing bad happened to her—that was all Theresa could gather from his mumbling.

  He gripped her by the upper arms, keeping her from moving away. “Promise me, Theresa. Promise your dad that you’ll stay out of trouble.”

  “I’ll try, Dad.” She tried to tug herself out from his grip, but it was too tight.

  “Don’t let anyone tempt you into trouble, Theresa. Oh God, oh God. What would I ever do if I lost you?”

  “Barry.” Galina’s tone was sharper than shattered glass. “Get control of yourself. You’re making a scene. You’re being ridiculous.”

  “It’s not ridiculous. I’m trying to make sure my little girl doesn’t end up . . . shit, Galina. I’m just . . .”

  “You’re drunk,” Galina said without inflection. “People are going home. You should come inside and go to bed. Sleep this off.”

  Without another word, her father pushed past Galina and went inside. Galina let out a long, sputtering sigh. She lit a cigarette and drew the smoke in deep, eyeing Theresa.

  “That dress is too small,” she said.

  Theresa touched the buttons at her throat, which still choked. “Yeah. I know.”

  “Your dad will be fine.”

  “I know.” Theresa cleared her throat. “Do you know what happened? To Jenni, I mean.”

  “It was an accident. That’s all I know.” Galina took in another long drag, the tip of her cigarette glowing fiercely red before she released it from her lips. She turned her head to blow the smoke out of the way, but it still stung Theresa’s eyes. “That old quarry’s never been safe. I’m surprised nobody’s gotten hurt before now.”

  “She didn’t just get hurt. She died.”

  Galina dropped the cigarette to the ground and stubbed it out with the toe of her shoe. “Perhaps she ought to have been more careful.”

  “Why’s my dad so upset?” Theresa asked boldly, pushing, certain her stepmother must know something she wasn’t revealing.

  “We’re all upset, Theresa. Your father drank too much. His emotions got away from him. It happens.” Galina shrugged.

  The answer didn’t satisfy her, but Theresa knew better than to push harder. Galina sometimes lost her temper quickly and violently. In the house, Theresa helped Babulya pack up the platters and containers of food, enough to last for weeks. Much of it went into their fridge and freezer, but Babulya put together two shopping bags of portioned meals in easy-to-heat containers and bid Theresa to take them next door.

  It was one of the few times Theresa had ever spoken more than a few words to Sally Harrison, who was always pleasant but often absent. Mrs. Harrison took the food with a blank look on her face, weighing each of the bags in her hands. The containers rattled inside, and Theresa worried for a moment that Babulya had packed the bags too heavily; they would tear and spill everything out into the entryway.

  “My God, we’ll dine on funeral food for months,” Sally said in a bland, blank voice without so much as a hint of inflection to it. “Who could think I would ever be able to eat a bite of any of this?”

  “I’ll take it, Mom.” From behind her, Alicia appeared. She pulled the bags from her mother’s clenched fists, gently at first, and then firmly when Sally wouldn’t let go. “Why don’t you go up to bed?”

  Sally turned without a word, leaving Theresa to stare with horrified, embarrassed eyes at Alicia. She wanted to say she was sorry, but that felt so worthless. Alicia was clearly waiting for her to leave so she could put the food away. It was a lost moment, one Theresa remembered for a long time. When she’d had the chance to say something kind, the chance to make a difference and help someone, but had not.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Theresa had been thinking about Ilya’s suggestion that she work at the diner, re-creating and preparing Babulya’s signature recipes to give the restaurant its own unique menu. It made no sense. She could cook, but not on that scale, and it was something she did for love. Not as a career. More important, aligning herself with him, tying herself to him, even in the least personal of ways—that could not be something she was considering at all.

  Could it?

  Staring at the ceiling of the room in a bed that did not belong to her, in a house she did not own, and in which she was only a guest by the grace of a woman she’d known long ago, Theresa folded her hands on her chest and took a long, deep breath. Agreeing to this would be insane, but she hadn’t stopped turning over the idea in her head since Ilya had offered it.

  With the money from her commission, she could pay off a good portion of the credit-card debt, making the rest manageable. She could continue her freelance work and put in hours at the new venture and possibly end up with a decent income. More than that, she could work at something that went beyond the daily grind. Something that left her feeling fulfilled. Excited. It could also leave her financially busted, stressed, and . . . well, she wouldn’t go so far