All the Lies We Tell (Quarry Road #1)(30)

“Hey.”

Ilya jumped, turning to see Theresa in the kitchen doorway. She still wore her coat, though she was tugging off the silky scarf around her throat. She hung her shoulder bag on the back of one of the kitchen chairs.

Ilya straightened, self-conscious suddenly that he hadn’t showered in the past three days. Or shaved. He ran a hand over his chin, wincing at the scratch, wondering why in the hell it mattered if he looked like he’d been sleeping under a bridge. This was Theresa, not a woman he had to impress or anything. Yet at the way she wrinkled her nose, he wished he’d taken the time to clean up.

“You’re back?” he asked instead.

She glanced at him over her shoulder as she went to the fridge to grab a drink. “I am. Your mother asked me to come. She said it’s okay if I stay here for the week, for shiva, but if it’s a problem . . .”

“Apparently it’s not my house,” he told her with a shrug. “So it’s not like I could kick you out, even if I wanted to.”

She eyed him over the top of her cola can, sipping, then let out a sigh. “Do you want to kick me out?”

“No,” he said after a second or so. “Of course not. You’re welcome to stay here as long as you need to, although why you’d want to, I have no idea.”

“I want to be here to celebrate Babulya’s life and help to mourn her death. Isn’t that what shiva is?”

Ilya made a face. “You sound like you know more about it than I do.”

“I dated a Jewish guy a couple years ago,” Theresa said with a shrug. “I picked up a few things.”

Time had passed—a lot of it—Ilya reminded himself. Theresa had lived a whole other life, just like he had. He imagined, briefly, Theresa kissing some faceless guy. Laughing, walking hand in hand. Weirded out, he shook away the thoughts.

“Besides,” she said lightly before he could reply, “my landlord decided he was going to finally replace the furnace and all the ductwork. So I need a place to crash, anyway.”

“A hotel would be better than this house,” Ilya said. “The shower’s a nightmare.”

“Oh, I know, believe me. I thought it was going to flay me alive.” She grinned.

“Grab me one?” Ilya gestured for her to get him a cola, and she did, which he opened and drank from before asking, “So, what’ve you been up to the past few decades?”

“That covers a lot of ground.” She took another long drink and shook the can to judge how much was left. Leaning against the counter, she crossed one arm over her belly to prop her opposite elbow on it.

“Well . . . you have a job?”

“Of course I have a job,” she said.

Ilya laughed. “What do you do?”

“I make connections,” Theresa answered. She drained the can, then tossed it into the recycling bin.

Ilya shook his head. “What do you connect?”

“Mostly real estate. I find properties that are in foreclosure or other financial difficulty and connect buyers that have the finances and desire and abilities to turn those opportunities into successful projects.”

“You lost me,” Ilya said.

Theresa laughed. “I spend a lot of time on the Internet looking up properties for sale or the places that have liens and back taxes, or are in an underserved location, or are somehow unique. Then I get in touch with people who like to invest in that sort of thing and try to connect them.”

Ilya chuffed somewhat amazed laughter. “And this works out for you?”

“Oh, yeah,” Theresa said airily, with a wave of her hand. “It’s been terrific. Best job ever.”

Something in her tone sounded a little off. Her smile, a little dim. Ilya tossed his cola can in the trash and went to the fridge to pull out a couple of beers. He handed her one. “How’d you get started with that?”

Theresa waved away the beer. “Not for me, thanks.”

He put it back in the fridge and cracked the top of his. “You don’t drink?”

“Nope.”

Ilya frowned. “Since when?”

“Since . . . forever,” she said. “For a long time, anyway.”

“You used to.”

She laughed and shook her head. “Maybe once. Here. That party you guys had.”

“That was a long time ago, Theresa. You’re telling me you haven’t had a beer since then?”

She shrugged. “Yep. It happens, you know.”

“But . . .” He shook his head. A life without booze? “Why?”

She brushed past him to grab a glass from the cupboard. Her perfume, something fresh, wafted over him. Her hair, long and thick and dark, tumbling over her shoulders and down her back, brushed his shoulder. He took a step back as she drew a glass of water from the tap and turned to face him, sipping.

“I don’t like it, that’s all. Where’s your mother and Niko?”

“She’s upstairs. I don’t know about him. People should start arriving soon, though. I think Galina told them around seven.” Ilya tipped the bottle to his mouth and drank, savoring the tang of hops and the underlying flavor of honey. His brother had picked this up. It was fancier than what Ilya usually drank. “You don’t drink at all? Not even a glass of wine with your girlfriends? Not ever? That’s weird.”