Chapter 4

Katya “Kate” Petrovna’s home sat tucked into one of Anastasia’s quiet residential blocks, a row of compact dwellings softened by climbing greenery and the muted glow of the dome’s false sunlight. The place was humble but neat, with shelves of worn books, a samovar on the counter, and embroidered linens that hinted at old-country roots.

Sophie had spent the night there, but even so, her stomach tightened as she opened the door for Zora.

“Aunt Katya,” Sophie said, her voice carefully neutral, “this is Zora Zephyr.”

Kate’s eyes lit warmly as she greeted the newcomer. “So, this is the singer. I’ve heard so much about you already.”

Zora beamed. “All lies, I’m sure.”

They settled in with tea, making the usual get-acquainted small talk—Zora chatting easily about travel, Kate offering polite inquiries, Sophie contributing here and there but mostly watching her aunt with quiet distress.

Finally, Sophie steered the conversation where it needed to go. “Aunt Katya ... there’s someone we wanted to ask you about. Natalia Kolosova.”

At once Kate’s face softened. She clasped her hands together, almost tenderly. “Natalia? She is a wonderful girl. Sweet, kind. She visits me often—like the daughter I never had. I don’t know what I would do without her.”

Sophie exchanged a brief look with Zora, then asked carefully, “And what about Jarl Brantley?”

The warmth drained from Kate’s expression. Her lips pressed tight before she spoke. “That man. Too old for her and connected to things he should not be. Filth.” She shook her head. “When she ended it with him, I was relieved. When she went back? That made no sense. She deserves better. She is clever, thoughtful—but ... sometimes too trusting.”

“How old is Natalia?” Sophie inquired.

“Twenty-two.”

The air grew heavy. Zora tried to lighten it, lifting her teacup like a toast. “Well, one thing’s certain—if Natalia plays the drums as well as she claims, maybe she should sit in with us sometime. I’ve been saying we need a spare.”

Kate smiled faintly, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

Sophie leaned forward, her tone steady but carrying the weight of duty. “Aunt Katya ... I need to tell you something. There are people—important people—who think Natalia might have been involved in Glory Antonova’s death.”

Kate froze. Then, with startling force, she shot up from her chair. “Ridiculous! Absolutely ridiculous! That girl would never hurt anyone!” Her voice rose, almost trembling with emotion. “She is good, do you understand? Good. Gentle. Do not let anyone tell you otherwise.”

Sophie opened her mouth, but Kate pushed on, relentless. “These investigators, whoever they are, they are wrong. They do not know her. I know her. She is like family. And I will not hear this slander.”

The torrent left the room ringing.

Zora, ever the peacemaker, tried another quip—something about how if Natalia had murderous intent, surely she’d start with bad drummers. But the humor clanged hollowly in the charged air. Kate’s fear was too palpable, and Sophie didn’t even crack a smile.

When they finally excused themselves, Sophie promised softly, “I’ll be back tonight, Aunt Katya.”

Kate just nodded, her face pale but determined.

Out on the quiet street, the dome light now slanting toward afternoon, Zora exhaled. “Well. That was ... something.”

Sophie folded her arms, unsettled. “She’s terrified. And she’s not wrong—Natalia doesn’t feel like a killer.”

“No,” Zora agreed. “But on paper? With the Jarl connection? With Glory dead? She’s a textbook ‘person of interest.’ Anyone would put her on the list.”

Sophie looked away, troubled. “I just don’t like where this is pointing. Not at Natalia. Not at my aunt.”

Zora gave her a sideways glance but said nothing. The silence between them carried a weight of its own.

The band’s rehearsal room at the hotel was soundproofed and slick, with modular panels glowing faint blue along the walls. But the atmosphere inside was anything but focused.

Sophie and Zora were both half-present, still distracted by the grim turn the investigation had taken and their uneasy visit with Kate. They played their parts, but without their usual spark.

And then there was Jennix.

She lounged in the corner at first, radiant as ever, but it was obvious she’d been spending plenty of time with Brian, Brax, and Finn. The men practically tripped over themselves every time she laughed, missing beats and chords as if her presence had rewired their reflexes.

During a break, Finn—grinning like a schoolboy—pulled out a pouch. “Meat gravel,” he announced proudly. “Finally scored some here in Anastasia.”

Jennix tilted her head curiously. “Meat ... gravel?”

“Try it,” Finn urged, offering a handful.

She tasted it daintily, then flashed a surprised smile. “I like it!”

The three men erupted in cheers, whooping and slapping each other on the back like they’d just won a championship.

Delta brought her hands together with a sharp crack. “Enough.”

The cheer died down.

She rose, planting herself squarely between the band and Jennix. Her voice was calm but carried the edge of command. “Jennix, we need two hours of focused practice. Please give us that.”

Jennix pouted theatrically, but something in Delta’s tone brooked no argument. She slid off the amp she’d been perched on and made her way to the door, heels clicking. “Fine. But only because you asked nicely.”

Once she was gone, the air shifted. The rest of the practice went better—chords tighter, rhythms steadier, focus returning. But when they wrapped up, the men immediately began drifting toward the door.