Dragusha Revenge ✓Completed✓

MIRA

TITO IS TRYING to make it seem like we’re just hanging out, like he’s just around, but he doesn’t get who he’s dealing with. Men watching me and controlling me and keeping secrets from me is old news. And guys trying to not seem like they were watching me? I’ve slipped away from the best of them. And I’ll slip away from Tito. And grab that file on my mom. We make pizza. We all watch a movie. I’m the sleepy, compliant girl. I wait until Tito is snuggled in under a blanket with a nice, hot, buttery bowl of popcorn to announce I’m going to grab a sweater and then I just do it.

Guards are most likely to ease up when they have fresh food—that’s the voice of experience. Instead of heading to my room, I slip into the study and grab the folder and a Taser I spotted in Aleksio’s drawer. I put it in my room and grab a sweater and come back out. It’s a fuck of a thing to sit there and watch the rest of the movie, but this is about keeping things looking right. Again, experience. When the movie ends I go back into my room. They’ve fixed the door, of course. Tito locks me in there, and I dive into the file.

The file is the coroner’s report from 11 years ago—it’s clearly genuine. It even smells genuine. Like an old library book I go through the sheets. It’s an autopsy report. That doesn’t make sense—there was never an autopsy of my mother. You don’t autopsy a cancer victim. But according to this document, there was an autopsy. The cause of death is listed as poisoning by a substance I can’t pronounce. Poisoned. I stare at it, trying to make sense of it. The doctors said she died of a rare form of cancer.

The doctors told me that. But somebody ordered an autopsy the day she died. Little things from that time flow together. Doctors arguing. The speed with which she was whisked off to that hospice. My father’s strange reluctance for me to raise money for the research for the rare cancer. But I wanted to do it. I needed to do something. This file says she didn’t have cancer at all. This file says my mother was murdered. I sit there, shaken to the core. Why does Aleksio have this? And why keep it from me? Was Dad covering for somebody? Was Dad involved? Were Aleksio’s people involved?

I try the door and find it locked. When they fixed the door, they reinforced it. My face heats. I’m so done being a prisoner. I need to get out and find the truth. I’m not so stupid as to think Dad’ll give me the answers. There’s a name on the report. I need a phone and a vehicle. I sleep fitfully. There’s a soft knock at the door around seven in the morning. “Yeah?” I say. “You awake?” It’s Tito. “I’m awake,” I say. “You guys have coffee out there? What’ll it take to get some brought in here?” “No problem,” Tito says. The footsteps recede. I have on shoes this time, and the stun gun. I’ve ripped up the sheets into strips, braided them into ropes and hidden them. Some fifteen minutes later there’s another knock. “Coffee delivery.” “Please,” I say. “Come in.” The door opens, and Tito appears. He smiles. He has a tray with kafe turke and a warm scone. “Aleksio and Viktor should be back in a few."

Thank you.” I motion to the dresser where I want him to put it. I feel bad for what I’m going to do. As soon as he sets it down, I jab the stun gun right into his flank. He falls heavily, much as I try to prevent it. I grab my makeshift ropes and bind his hands and ankles. When he rouses I jab him again. I gag him and then tie him to the radiator. “I’m so sorry,” I say, taking his phone, his revolver, and his money. He looks mad. Aleksio will have a fit. I slip out and steal through the house. I avoid the back where they’re all smoking; instead I go out the side door.

I run up the driveway and hit the fob. The lights on a BMW flash on. I start it up and drive like hell. When I get a few miles away, I pull over, heart pounding, and call the medical examiner’s office. I ask for Fazli Jashari—that’s the name at the upper right-hand corner of the file. Albanian. The man who signed off. They tell me he’s not in until the afternoon. No, I won’t leave a message