☆ ᴡᴀᴛᴛʏꜱ 2024 SHORTLISTER!! ☆
A tragic misunderstanding. A murder. A secret. An unlikely partnership. A spirited countess and an enterprising racketeer.
~~~
Manchester, England. May 1925.
The Roarin' 20s. An era of glamor, decadent parties, jazz mus...
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A tense, eerie silence descended upon the room. Rose stared at Mr. Mercer, suspicious and agitated, and he stared back, stoic and frigid.
Rose's mouth had long since gone dry. She suffered through a swallow and repeated her question. “Why do you have Dmitri's ring?”
In the stead of giving an answer, Mr. Mercer took another drag off his cigarette and exhaled the smoke, each movement slow and precise. Rose couldn't tell if he was stalling for time or simply didn't care.
At last, her host said, “He left it here.”
“He left it here,” Rose repeated, a sharp edge to her words.
“Yes.”
“He left his family heirloom here. With you. When he ‘resigned’,” she clarified.
“Yes.”
“As what? A gift?”
“Could be. I didn't ask.”
Rose balled her hand into a fist and squeezed the handkerchief in her lap, willing herself to remain calm. “Mr. Mercer, do you honestly expect me to believe that Dmitri left your estate without his family ring?”
Mr. Mercer released a plume of smoke from between his lips and snubbed out his cigarette. “I have no expectations whatsoever regarding your beliefs, Miss Sinclair.”
Something inside of Rose snapped. Whatever metaphorical line had kept her tethered to this farce of a polite conversation was severed by an invisible knife. A knife wielded by her host's blasé tone of voice and mirthless eyes.
“You're lying,” Rose stated through clenched teeth.
Mr. Mercer regarded her in his habitual aggravating silence, the slight expression on his face falling somewhere between offense and amusement. “Am I?”
“Yes!” Rose exclaimed. “Yes, you're lying! Dmitri would have died before parting with that ring. His father gave it to him just before he passed on. It has been in Dmitri's family for six generations. He told me the whole story behind it. Look at the face: the engraving. That word is the Russian spelling of the name ‘Kuragin’! Why would he give it to any person who did not bear that name?”
Mr. Mercer did not spare the engraving a glance. His gaze remained fixed on Rose. “I can't say.”
“You can't say because you're lying!” Rose reiterated, her voice rising in pitch and fervor. “All of this, everything you've said to me since I walked through that door, has been a pile of rubbish. You're a liar.”
Mr. Mercer's nostrils flared. It was the first sign of emotion Rose had witnessed since meeting him.
“Be careful, Miss Sinclair,” he said. His voice was low and dangerous, and a chill seemed to emanate from him as he spoke. “It isn't wise to call me a liar in me own house. I've given ya me time. I've answered your questions. You look like a smart girl. Don't take me kindness for granted.”
