The Greco family's surveillance was thorough, perhaps invasively so. Alex hadn't taken another lover—of that, at least, he was certain.
Taking a deep breath, Nikolai turned the handle and slipped inside the darkened bedroom.
The bed was empty, its covers thrown back but undisturbed, as though its occupant had recently risen. Nikolai scanned the room, noting the framed photographs on the dresser—pictures of the children, of Alex with her father, but none that included him. The omission stung more than he cared to admit.
A sound from the adjoining bathroom caught his attention—at first, he thought it was singing, a soft melody barely audible through the door. As he moved closer, the sound clarified into something that made his blood run cold.
Alex was crying.
Not the gentle tears of mom
