The air goes suddenly tense. I have a feeling, if I look at Conor right now, there’ll be a scary expression on his face, so I keep my eyes on the icy blonde instead. “Yes. An altercation that resulted in Paul being arrested — not to mention me kicking his ass out of the house for good.” I lean forward in my seat. “Perhaps that sheds a little light on why I’ve had some difficulty getting my husband to agree to a divorce. Last time I tried, he broke my favorite lamp. I’d prefer not to give him an opportunity to break anything else.”
A low sound comes from Conor’s direction. It’s almost a growl.
Sykes shoots him a speculative look before pinning me with her stare once more. “Be that as it may, you are still legally and financially bound to Paul Hunt. Which brings us back to yesterday. Clearly there are certain individuals out there who believe they can send your husband a message by putting you in the crosshairs.”
“Look, I don’t have the slightest idea what Paul is up to, nor do I want to. He’s not my concern anymore.”
“Mhmm.” Her head tilts again in that predatory way. “And you maintain you have no knowledge of what he took from this Alexei character you mentioned earlier?”
“No. I mean yes. I mean— I have no knowledge of it!” Her phrasing is tripping me up. I’m not sure if it’s the lack of sleep or merely the fact that I’m here, at freaking FBI Headquarters, but my mind is spinning and my pulse is racing. The longer this goes on, the less it feels like being interviewed… and the more it feels like being interrogated.
But that can’t be possible.
Right?
I’m the victim here!
Except… Sykes isn’t looking at me like I’m a victim. She’s looking at me like she’s holding a hammer and the final nail for my coffin.
“Agent Sykes, I swear — I’ve told you everything I remember. I don’t know what Paul is up to or what the hell those men are after.”
“Noted.” Her eyes narrow. “And you claim you’d never seen them before yesterday?”
I tense. “Claim? I don’t claim anything. That’s the truth.”
Her thin-lipped smile reappears. “I see.”
“I don’t think you do see,” I say, feeling my hackles rise. “Otherwise you wouldn’t be treating me like a common criminal. Last I checked, you usually investigate the bad guys who commit crimes, not the victims who suffer them!”
Sykes is suspiciously silent.
“Oh my god,” I say, finally putting the pieces together. “You think I have something to do with this.”
Her brows lift as if to say, Well, do you?
“Wow.” I shake my head. “You honestly believe I’m behind this?”
“Mrs. Hunt, we have to explore all avenues,” Sykes says placatingly. “Once we rule you out as a suspect—”
A suspect!
I’m actually a suspect!
I’d laugh, if I could summon even the slightest sense of humor about this situation. I find myself glancing at Conor. For what, I’m not sure.
Help? Absolution? Explanation?
His eyes give nothing away — they’re dark and shuttered as ever. And his expression is stone cold.
He’s not going to jump in and save you, idiot, I remind myself, feeling my heart pang. He’s the one who dragged you in here. He thinks you’re guilty, too.
For some reason, betrayal blazes through me, hot as a wildfire. Realizing my so-called savior isn’t actually on my side at all burns more than it should. I tear my eyes from him, ignoring the pain in my chest. Agent Sykes is still watching me guardedly.
“Honestly… Do I look like a criminal mastermind to you?”
Her eyes flicker up and down.
I snort. “I’m a freaking yoga instructor!”
“A yoga instructor who married a man with known ties to the Petrov family.”
My brows lift. “The who?”
“The Petrov family.” When I continue to stare at her blankly, she elaborates. “The Russian Bratva.”
Still drawing a blank.
She sighs. “The mafia, Mrs. Hunt.”
“WHAT?”
“I take from your rather overenthusiastic response, you were not aware of your husbands connections.”
My heart is pounding twice its normal speed. “Agent Sykes, I don’t know where you’re getting your intel, but it’s way off base. There’s no way Paul has ties to the Russian mob.”
“I assure you, our intel is quite accurate. Your husband has conducted extensive business on behalf of the Petrovs, from equity trading to reallocating family finances. He’s traveled to Russia at least five times in the past year on the Petrov private jet. And the East Boston apartment in which he currently resides is owned by a shell corporation the Petrov family uses for real estate dealings.”
“But… No. He works as a portfolio manager for a hedge fund. He trades stocks and bonds. I’ve met his co-workers. They’re all average, boring investment banker types. I promise you, they’re not members of the Russian mafia.” I force out a strangled laugh. “And Paul may be a total asshole, but he’s not a criminal.”
“Were you aware your husband is no longer employed by LP Consulting?”
I jolt back in my seat. “N-no. No, I wasn’t aware of that.”
“According to our records, he was fired almost two years ago for making unauthorized trades and subsequently stripped of his Series 65 license.”
“Are you sure we’re talking about the same Paul Hunt?”
She nods gravely.
“I’m just…” I shake my head, as if that might somehow lend me clarity in the midst of this chaos. “I’m having a hard time wrapping my mind around this. It’s a lot to take in all at once. I knew my husband kept secrets — he was a master at it, trust me. But this is a whole new level…”
She gives me a minute to process before lightly clearing her throat. “Mrs. Hunt—”
“Please. Call me Shelby.” I attempt a smile. “You’ve already accused me of being a criminal. The time for formality has come and gone.”
I think I actually see a spark of life in her icy eyes. “Shelby, then.”
“So…” My laugh is bitter. “If my darling husband hasn’t been trading stocks and bonds for the past two years, what has he been doing — besides his secretary, of course — that keeps him at the office until three in the morning most nights? Does he even have an office, anymore?”
“That’s what we’ve spent the past six months trying to piece together.”
We?
I dart a glance at Conor. He’s still watching me, tense as ever. I try — and fail — to read his expression, wondering just how thoroughly he’s embedded in this investigation into my life. Just how much he knows about the inner workings of Shelby Hunt’s world.
Probably best not to answer that question. Ever.
I shiver and glance back at his partner.
Sykes’ lips flatten into a serious line. “We believe, after he was fired, Paul turned to the Petrovs for help securing work. His faulty trades left him blackballed in the United States, but his Russian connections gave him an opportunity to make money in the international market without the SEC breathing down his neck.”
“I had no idea. He never said anything about this to me.”
“And you never suspected he was doing something for work beyond his duties at LP Consulting?”
I think back, sorting through my memories with fresh eyes. I didn’t see it before. Maybe I didn’t want to see it. But I think, on some deep level, I knew whatever my husband was doing during business hours wasn’t entirely above board. He always tried to keep me as far from his professional practices as possible — to maintain our well-established two party system: his arena the boardroom, mine the homestead.
But keeping his dutiful, apron-wearing wife out of his affairs wasn’t always easy; mainly because I don’t own an apron and I’m far too obstinate to ever be described as dutiful by anyone with more than three functioning brain cells.
Over the
years, I’ve witnessed my fair share of deals happening behind closed doors in Paul’s home office — deals with men in dark suits carrying reinforced briefcases who never made eye contact or stopped to make smalltalk on their way in and out in the middle of the night. At the time, I assumed they were colleagues from his firm. But now…
“There were a few times,” I murmur, watching Sykes’ eyes light up with interest. I tell her everything I can remember about the men who came to the house — never the same one twice, never there for longer than twenty minutes.
“Did you ever hear him talk about offshore accounts?” she asks.
“No.”
“What about the Cayman Islands?”
“No.”
“And he never mentioned the name Petrov to you?
“Never.”
She caps her pen with a frustrated click.
“I’m sorry I can’t be more helpful,” I tell her. “But if Paul has a business connection to this… Petrov family… it’s one he kept secret from me.”
“It’s more a blood tie than a business connection, I’m afraid.”
My brows lift. “What?”
“Paul doesn’t just work for the Petrovs. He is a Petrov.”
“That’s… that’s not possible. Paul’s family is from Colorado. He was born and raised on the cattle ranch his great, great grandfather purchased for cheap back at the turn of the century.”
“I’m afraid that’s just another lie your husband told you, Shelby.” She pulls out a sheet of paper. “Paul Hunt, born Paul Sergei Usenko, to Dmitry and Ekaterina Usenko. The family legally changed their surname to Hunt upon their immigration to the United States in 1992, just after the collapse of the Soviet Union.”
I suck in a gulp of air, feeling like my whole world is spiraling out of control. “You’re mistaken.”
“I assure you, I’m not. If you’d like to see the documentation, it’s all right here in this folder.” She pushes the file across the table at me.
My hands shake as I reach out and take it. For the next few minutes, I’m consumed by the documents before my eyes. Birth certificates, copies of their immigration papers, photographs of my in-laws from nearly thirty years ago, taken the day they entered the country, a brown-haired toddler boy bundled in their arms.
Paul.
“Your in-laws are merely renters on that ranch, who receive room and board in exchange for maintenance of the land.” Agent Sykes’ voice has thawed — damn, even the ice queen feels bad for me right now. “As for Paul, he grew up in government-subsidized housing just outside of Denver from age three to eighteen, at which point he made his way to the East Coast for college. Looks like he got a free ride to—”
“Stone Hill University,” I finish for her, feeling like the floor has fallen out beneath me. “Where… where he met me.”
Sykes nods.
I look down at my left hand. At the bare fourth finger where my wedding ring used to rest. I curl it into a tight fist and tuck it away beneath the table before I can do something stupid, like punch the wall.
God, I’m such a fool.
Such an utter idiot for spending a decade of my life swallowing pretty lies from a man I thought I could trust. For failing to ask the pertinent questions, to push back when he forced me to keep my nose out of the financial affairs of our household.
I glance up at Sykes. “I understand the name change — my great grandfather came through Ellis Island in the 1920s and went from Pasquale Alfonsi to Patrick Alberts in an attempt to assimilate to American culture.” I blow out a sharp breath. “What I don’t understand is why Paul would keep it a secret… why he’d lie about his entire background…”
“We believe, in leaving Russia, your in-laws were hoping to cut ties to the Petrov family and get a fresh start.” Sykes reaches for the folder again and locates a faded photograph. “Here. The woman in this photo is—”
“My mother-in-law,” I say, staring at a much younger version of the woman whose son I married. “Katrina.”
“Katrina Hunt. Also known as Ekaterina Usenko. And before that… Ekaterina Petrov. ”
My eyes lift to hers. “She’s a Petrov?”
“That photograph was taken in Moscow in the early 1980s. See the man standing next to her?”
I nod, my gaze following Sykes finger as she points out the blurry figure beside Katrina. His features are hardly recognizable due to the poor picture quality. All I can make out is dark hair and dark eyes and a full beard.
“That’s her brother, Alexei, beside her.”
I glance up at the name. “Alexei. As in…?”
“Alexei Petrov. The same Alexei your attackers mentioned yesterday.” Sykes sits back and folds her hands together on the table. “He’s the leader of the Petrov crime syndicate. The boss, if you will.”
“Oh,” I say weakly. I’m suddenly having trouble breathing. “But… why would he come after Paul?”
“We believe your husband has bridged the gap his mother created when she ran from Russia — and her older brother — all those years ago. Our surveillance suggests he’s been doing business with his uncle for some time, now.”
“Paul…” I shake my head. “You’re saying Paul is in business with a Russian crime lord.”
“Well…” Sykes sighs. “Yes. He was. For a time.”
“I don’t understand.”
“We believe your husband attempted to extract himself from the business dealings he conducted for the Petrovs — money laundering and tax evasion, mainly — when he got a good look at the extent of their criminal activities.” She pauses. “As I said earlier, the Petrovs aren’t just any family. They’re embedded in every illegal operation on the planet, from dirty bombs to black tar heroin to off-market weapons to sex slaves. There aren’t many pies the Petrov family won’t stick a finger or two in, if it means turning a profit. We’re talking extortion, arson, assassinations—”
“Sykes,” Conor says sharply, breaking his silence for the first time. “That’s enough.”
His partner shoots him a look. “I’m just trying to give her the facts, Gallagher.”
If he says something else, I don’t hear it.
I’ve gone pale. My stomach has turned to lead. Everything I thought I knew about my husband, my marriage, my life has turned to ash inside my mouth.
This is far, far worse than anything I could’ve imagined. Worse than the prospect of a torrid affair with a secretary. Worse than a violent outburst that leads to locked doors and leaking eyes. Worse than torn up divorce papers and a bruised cheekbone and police sirens sounding in the distance on a bright Christmas morning.
When I manage to find my voice, it’s shaky at best. “So… let me get this straight.” My hands clench so hard, I worry my fingernails are going to break the skin. “My no-good, dirty-rotten, lying, cheating bastard of a soon-to-be ex-husband actually turns out to not just be a no-good, dirty-rotten, lying, cheating bastard… but also the nephew of a Russian mobster.”
After a hesitant beat, Sykes nods.
“And, after aiding and abetting in his uncle’s criminal activities, my gem of a soon-to-be-ex has somehow managed to royally piss off said mob boss.”
She nods again. “Judging by the visit Petrov’s hitmen payed you yesterday, we’re guessing his uncle is less than thrilled about Paul’s decision to walk away from the family business,” Sykes explains. “And the language they used when making their demands — tell Paul he has one week to return what he took from Alexei — suggests he has some sort of leverage to ensure his freedom. Leverage his uncle wants back pretty desperately, if he’s willing to send two of his top assets across an ocean to retrieve it.”
“What the hell did Paul possibly steal that warrants sending large, scary hitmen to his wife’s yoga studio in retribution?”
“It could be money, it could be proof of criminal activity… Incriminating photographs or documents… Anything, really. We’re still trying to find out. The problem is…”
“What?”
“No one has seen or heard from your husband in weeks. He’s hiding out. Probably trying to formulate a plan that’ll keep his uncle from killing him long enough to return whatever he unwisely stole. But the longer he’s off the grid, the less patient Petrov is becoming.”
“Well, I guess that explains why they came after me. They’re trying to draw him out. Thinking he’ll step up and protect me.” I laugh bitterly. “Clearly they don’t know him very well.”
“Or…” Sykes bites her lip.
“Or what? Don’t leave me hanging.”
“They’re under the impression that you either know where Paul is hiding… or you know where he hid Alexei’s property.”
“I don’t.”
“Right. But they don’t know that, Shelby.” Her eyes are intent. “And they aren’t the type to take your word on it.”
“Wait just a second.” My throat feels tight. There’s a lump of something — I think it’s panic — blocking my airway. “If Alexei and his cronies think I have something to do with whatever Paul is hiding… that means…” I trail off, feeling the blood drain from my face.
“It means,” Conor says, breaking his strained silence as he walks over to the table and braces his hands against it in an intimidating pose that makes every muscle in his forearms flex tightly. His dark blue eyes find mine, and I see they’re brimming over with intensity. “You are in a shitload of danger, Hunt.”
Chapter Six
JAIL BAIT
A coffee cup hits the table in front of me.
I jolt out of my dark reverie — a montage of distorted memories from a marriage I no longer recognize — and jerk my eyes up in time to see Conor take the seat across from mine. Agent Sykes is nowhere to be found. She bolted soon after our earlier conversation under the pretense of ‘giving me time to process’ but I’d put money on the fact that she’s got her pert nose pressed up against that two-way glass at this exact moment, jotting down every word I say in her orderly notebook of clues.
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