The Secrets We Hide (The Four #2) - Becca Steele Page 0,72
been allocated for me here.
Where should I start? The bookcase was probably a good bet. I riffled through the papers—nothing of interest, mostly old clippings of various sporting events. It looked like Allan was a big football fan, as he’d saved articles on the Premier League going back years. Scanning the books, I noted that he was a fan of the classics—The Count of Monte Cristo, Don Quixote, and War and Peace were all among the hardcover editions weighing down the shelves. I guess I’d been hoping for something obvious, like maybe a book in Russian, or a Russian dictionary. Something to explain how on earth Arlo’s very English butler could speak fluent Russian.
Of course, nothing could be that simple. No conveniently placed clues for me to find.
Where else could I look?
I got down on my hands and knees, checking under the bed, but the only thing I got was a face full of dust. Coughing, I clambered to my feet, casting my gaze around.
Only a few more places I could check in this room.
Crossing to the dresser, I eased open the bottom drawer, figuring if anything was likely to be hidden in here, the bottom drawer was the best bet. I carefully moved aside a scratchy woollen blanket, and my fingertips touched something solid.
Reaching forward, my hand closed around the item, and I lifted it out of the drawer. It was a solid wooden box, slightly smaller than a standard shoebox, with a hinged lid, with intricate carvings running over the lid and around the sides. I quickly pulled my phone out of my bag and snapped photos of the box at all angles, then sat down on the floor, cross-legged, to examine the inside.
I gently opened the tarnished gold clasp and lifted the lid.
It was full of letters, most yellowed with age, the ink faded and illegible.
Lifting the pile of letters out, I was about to unfold the first one, when I saw a glint of metal out of the corner of my eye.
My stomach churned as I touched the smooth gold sovereign-style ring, picking it up, already knowing what was going to be on it before I’d seen.
The cloaked man with arms outstretched, one holding what looked like a lightning rod, and the other resting on top of what was either a number eight or an infinity symbol.
The Strelichevo syndicate crest.
My heart was pretty much beating out of my chest at this point, and all I wanted to do was get away from this house, to escape to the safety of my boys, but I had to at least check these letters. I quickly snapped a couple of photos of the ring and let it fall back into the box, then returned my attention to the letters.
I unfolded the first with shaking hands, the paper crinkling under my fingers.
Then the next. Then the next.
All were in Russian.
I photographed the letters I’d unfolded, anyway, even though the ink was barely legible. There were no envelopes, so I didn’t have a return address to give me any clue. Deciding to look at just one more, conscious that I’d already been here much longer than I’d planned, I opened the next one on the pile, and a photograph fell out, face down.
Lifting the photo from the floor, I turned it over in my hands and gasped aloud. The little girl in the photo looked so much like me when I’d been a child, that I instantly knew who it was.
My mother. Maybe around four or five, if I had to guess. What the fuck was Allan doing with my mother’s photo and a box of Russian letters? I snapped another photo, then quickly piled everything back into the box and replaced it back in the drawer.
I’d just reached the door, when footsteps sounded in the hallway, and a barking cough that I recognised, since I’d only heard it ten minutes earlier.
Allan.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
This was the last room in the corridor, which meant he must be headed straight for me. That, and the fact it was his bedroom. Where could I go? The bed was too low to squeeze my whole body under.
I was in full-on panic mode by this point, and I darted for the ensuite door, pulling it almost all the way closed behind me, just leaving a tiny crack that I could look through.
My panicked gaze darted around the darkened bathroom, my breaths shallow, a wave of dizziness assaulting me as I took in the tiny space.