Anya

The atmosphere was somber, and I didn't even try to maintain a brittle smile as I greeted people arriving in our home. I didn't care if they thought I was rude, especially since many of them probably came to elicit juicy tidbits to gossip about later.

It was a small gathering, which made sense. My father had lost contact with a lot of his friends after Mom's death, followed by his decline into alcoholism and worse. Of the faces around me, I recognized a few as true friends or family who'd earned the right to be there, but there were several strangers too. I couldn't help thinking they were just there to gawk and be on the fringes of our family drama.

I moved through woodenly, occasionally exchanging words with those who offered sympathy or a kind word about my father. Carrie was in the corner, her face buried in her iPad. Those around us probably found it disrespectful, but I understood. She needed to escape and disconnect from the reality.

Who could blame her? I wouldn't have chastised her for going upstairs and hiding in my room like our younger sister Sasha was at the moment. At fifteen, no one expected her to cope like they did Carrie, who was seventeen, or me. I was just twenty, but suddenly I was head of the family playing hostess at my father's memorial service.

Tears threatened to break me again, and I hurried down the hall. Somehow, I managed to avoid stopping to talk to anyone as I closed myself in Dad's study for a moment. I moved across the room and sat down in his broken—down leather chair. I once asked him about replacing it, but he'd claimed he had it just the way he wanted it. I wasn't certain if he held onto it because it was broken—in, or sentiment prompted him to keep it since it had been a gift from Mom.

The chair creaked as I sat down and leaned forward to put my head on the desk on top of my arms. I just needed a few minutes alone to try to gather my composure before dealing with those people still waiting for me. Most of them probably meant well, but I just wanted them all to go away.

If they were here looking for answers as to why my father had put a gun in his mouth and blown out his brains, I couldn't give it to them. I had no clue. He'd spent the last year getting sober and seemingly turning things around, so his backslide made no sense. There hadn't been any alcohol in the house, and when I saw him the night before I found him the next morning, he seemed perfectly sober.

He was certainly upset about something, but refused to discuss it. I wish now I had pressed him on it, and perhaps we could've come to a solution together. Even if I just stayed up with him that night, I could have kept him from killing himself. At least that night.

I looked up as the door opened quietly, hoping it would be Carrie or Sasha, but braced myself to face friends or family members. Perhaps someone had seen me slip away and wanted to ensure I was all right. I was pretty far from all right, but was mustering every effort to give an appearance to the contrary when three strangers stepped into the office.

I had no idea who any of them were, but each sent a shiver down my spine. There was something in the way they carried themselves that suggested they were dangerous. Two of the men were hulking monoliths of muscle and aggression, and they stood shoulder to shoulder behind the shorter, fatter, older man. He wasn't as physically intimidating, but when I looked at him, I found him the most frightening of all.

Perhaps it was because his eyes were cold and flat, bordering on reptilian. They reminded me of the eyes of Carrie's corn snake she had a few years ago. I trembled as he stepped closer to the desk, clenching the edge and wondering if I should give in to the urge to scream for help.

"Hello, Anya."

The sound of my name on his lips was a shock, since I was positive I'd never met him. Eyeing him warily, I didn't return the greeting. I just sat in silence for a moment as I wondered what to say.

He sat down at the desk, taking the hardback chair that Dad kept there. I remembered sitting in there a few times as I got lectured about my grades and knew for a fact it was uncomfortable. He seemed unbothered by it though, and his beady gaze never wavered from me.

I licked my lips. "Who are you?"

"I'm an…associate of your father's. My name is Dmitri Ivanov." He paused for a moment as though he expected his name to mean something to me. Then he continued speaking. "Your father was a regular client of mine."

I frowned as I sat further upright, hands clenched together on my lap. "I'm not sure what business you're in, Mr. Ivanov, but my dad owned pawnshops. What kind of service did you provide him?" It was a perfectly reasonable question, but my stomach still tightened with dread as I awaited the answer.

"Money." The word sounded cold and loathsome on his tongue. "Your father went through a very rough patch following your mother's death, da?"

He'd spoken without an accent until he said the Russian word, and I could hear it bleeding through. I shrugged. "I'm sure anyone who knows him knows that."

"Did you know he risked losing the business, Anya?"

I shook my head, having no clue it was that dire. "I can see how it might've happened, but he spent the last year pulling everything back from the brink."

Ivanov surprised me by nodding. "He did, but not without my generosity and continued extensions of credit. The economy is what it is, and though your father did an admirable thing by giving up his addictions, it was too little too late, I'm afraid. It became obvious he was never going to be able to repay us, so I seized his assets. I fear that might've been what drove him to such a desperate act." He said the words with sympathy, but his gaze never wavered, and no hint of any emotion flickered across his face.