Moldavia is the same as it always was.

Shadowy. Secluded. Mysterious. But somehow, everything has changed.

Inside is dusty. Stagnant. A time capsule of our last moments together. Javi's bed is still unmade, where we slept together that night. The bandages remain on the bedside table, from when he mended me after I tried to escape. And the glass he brought me to take my pills remains, empty.

It is an ache unlike any other when I walk around this house. When I don't feel him here. I try to be strong. I try to remember everything I learned from my therapy. I want to hold on to the good memories and push forward. But it's hard when everything is so desolate around me.

It's hard when every time I have to breathe, it hurts.

His child grows inside of my belly. And I have to do this on my own. It cracks me open and makes me bleed all over again. But the worst pain comes when I visit the conservatory. When I see the roses have withered and died in his absence.

The once familiar scent that used to surround us no longer lives.

Even the house is in mourning. I can’t feel him here. I don't feel him here at all. I have to see him one more time. In the only way I can.

I walk to the bathroom, and I find the makeup case. The one where I stashed the tapes. The tapes that have haunted me for so long.

I don't know what's on these.

I don't know why they were hidden away from the others. But I have nothing left to lose now. I have nothing left to fear. The worst has already happened. There can be nothing on these tapes that’s worse than what I've already witnessed. That's what I tell myself as I walk to the projector.

They are numbered, so I start with the first. The projector sputters to life, but nothing plays on the screen. I try the next tape. And the next. And the next. They are all blank.

All along, they meant nothing.

There was nothing here. It doesn’t make sense. Why were they locked away?I can’t think about it anymore. I can’t focus.

I put on one of his tee shirts, and I cry. But only for an hour. That's all I will allow myself. Because I have to keep moving forward. I have to, for my baby. For our baby.

I have to make a home. I have to play my music. I have to stay busy. And most importantly...

I have to plan a funeral.

* * *

My father comes to the door in the afternoon, his shoulders falling in relief when I answer it.

"Isa, I was so worried. You should not have run off like that."

"I’m an adult," I answer. "And I was free to go. I did not need your permission."

His eyes are sad when he looks at me. I am sad too. I don't know how it came to this. I don't know who this man is.

"I know what you did," I tell him.

"I did not kill him, Isa," he insists. "I know you find this difficult to understand, but I cared for Javi. I cared for him like a son. And I am mourning his death too..."

"I'm not talking about that.”

Guilt washes over his face. He tugs at his collar, his mind silently formulating the next untruth.

"Don't lie to me," I bluff. "I've seen the tapes."

His reaction is small. But it’s there. The slightest flash of worry darkens his eyes before he masks it again.

“Isa, I do not know what you are speaking of.”

"Yes, you do. He was tortured. Because of you. You took him from one hell and sent him to another. He loved you. How could you do that to him?"

"I had no choice. Isa, you don't understand."

"I understand that you betrayed him. All those years, you told me I could never meet him. That he was dangerous. But in reality, he was only the monster you created."

"I was following orders," he says. "You don't understand how the agency works. If I had not followed those orders, I would be dead. And then what would become of you?"

"Then I would have at least known that my father was an honorable man."

My words cut him, and I can't hold back the emotion in my voice. The shame. The anger. The grief.

I want to take the words back as soon as I say them. I hate this. I hate being so conflicted. Living between love and hate. First with Javi. And now with my father.

"Isa," he pleads. "Forgive me. I'm so sorry."

He pulls me into his arms, and I don't fight this time. It hurts so much. I want to forgive him, but I don't know how I can. How can I when I still don't know the truth about Javi's death.

"Have you heard anything more about River?" I ask.

My father’s arms stiffen around me, and I pull away.

"Tell me," I demand. "You have to tell me."

"Let me come inside," he implores.

I let him into the parlor and shut the door behind him. He gestures to the kitchen, and we take a seat at the counter. I don't offer him a drink. The time for pleasantries is over.

"There is much more to River than I knew," my father begins.

"Javi trusted him," I say. "He trusted him with his life. With my life. He thought he was his friend."

"I trusted him too," my father answers. "I didn't realize how deep this went."

"What do you mean?"

"River is employed by the agency."

I shake my head. That can't be right. Javi would have known.

"They've known each other since the sanitarium," I argue.

"I know," my father replies. "That's why his cover worked so well. He is a handler of sorts. That was his role all along. He was inserted into Javi's life at a young age to build a relationship of trust."

"But why?" I ask. "Why would they do that?"

"Because Javi was a valuable asset," he answers. "One that, in the right hands, could have been a dangerous weapon. If he ever decided to act on his own, to work for another agency, it could have devastated the entire house of cards."

"So, you're telling me the agency is behind his death? That doesn’t make sense. Why would they hurt him?"

"I don't know.”

I want to believe him, but I don’t know that I can.

"I know River cared for him," my father tells me. "That wasn't a lie. I know he cared for him."

His words make no difference now. What does it matter if he cared when he disappeared without an explanation?

"I'm tired," I say. "I think I'm going to rest now."

He shakes his head, his eyes pleading with me.

"You can't stay here, Isa. It isn't safe. Not until we know what's going on."

"Nowhere is safe," I reply. "Not when I have no idea who to trust. What difference does it make if I'm here or at home? At least here, nobody can get in from the outside. Not unless I let them."

"You don't know that," my father argues.

"I'm not leaving. This is my home now. Where Javi lived. That's where I will live too."

He still wants to argue. But he doesn't. And I know my father well enough to know that he will probably have at least a few armed guards surrounding the place when he leaves here tonight.

"Just think about it, Isa," he says. "Think about coming home."

I walk him to the door.

"The funeral is on Friday," I tell him. "If you want to come."