by Nikki Sloane
He narrowed one eye, like he wasn’t entirely sure how to handle me. He cast a final glance at my husband, then back to me. “You should be careful.”
I sucked in a sharp breath.
He turned, headed for the door, and lobbed it at me over his shoulder. “I mean, the floor’s wet and I don’t want you to slip and fall. You’re a pretty girl and don’t seem to be as dumb as your husband. It’d be a shame if something bad happened to you.”
His thinly veiled threat vibrated through my bones long after he was gone.
Outside, the thunderstorm continued to rage. It left me no choice but to remain and wait it out. I sat in the darkness, my gaze fixated on the machines while not actually seeing anything. How was I going to escape this mess that was my life? It was possible I could go back to Russia, but I’d have to give up everything. I’d have to leave my sculptures behind, along with the hard-fought prestige I’d built for my name, and that was assuming the Petrovs would let me go.
Twenty minutes after Vasilije Markovic left, the nurse on the night rotation came in and startled when she discovered me. She was older, with a friendly face, but she moved about the room like she was behind schedule.
“I didn’t bring an umbrella,” was the idiotic thing I said to her when she asked how I was doing. The truth was scarier. I didn’t know what was waiting for me back at the enormous, childless house that was in Sidor’s name only.
The lights blinked off, plunging the room into darkness for a split second, and the respirator beeped as the power source was interrupted. Time suspended in the quiet that followed, and the emergency lighting that flicked on was pale and eerie. It was cast on us only long enough for a single heartbeat before the power whirred back on. The life support machines chirped again, switching off the batteries and back onto direct power.
“What was that?” I asked.
The nurse walked to the window and peered out at the parking lot below, which was dark. “It looks like we’ve lost power. This storm ain’t playing.”
I sat up straighter, and she must have misinterpreted my reaction as concern.
“Don’t worry,” she said with a reassuring tone, “we’ve already running off the generator. The hospital has two of them.”
“Oh,” I said. “But what happens if a generator stops working?”
She wrinkled her forehead. “These generators are so big, they have their own building.” My worried expression forced her to continue. “In the really unlikely event that happens, all these machines have battery backup.”
I played up my fear and made her show me exactly how the systems worked and where the batteries went. Only when she was done, did I look satisfied.
“Your husband is in the safest place he could be,” she said.
It wasn’t true. Not only because a Markovic had been here earlier, but because I was standing beside Sidor’s bed and insidious voices whispered through my mind. It’d be easy to do.
It’d take less than two minutes before he was gone, and then I’d be free. No messy, expensive divorce. No months wasted, waiting for him to die. I could leave Chicago as soon as the funeral was over and the finances settled.
My stomach churned with anxiety as I contemplated killing my husband. Vasilije said if I wanted it done, I was going to have to do it myself. But what if I got caught? Could I really become a killer and take someone else’s life? What would Sergey do to me if he found out? Thunder crashed outside and rattled the window.
My chest was tight with tension.
The nurse finished her check-in and entered some keystrokes into the computer system mounted to the wall opposite the bed. When it was done, she turned and her gaze settled on me, her expression warm and understanding.
“I think we’re all set for the transfer tomorrow.”
I blinked. “Transfer? Is my husband going somewhere?”
She hesitated, confused. “An order got put in this morning to transfer to long-term care. That wasn’t you?” She returned to the computer and typed, pulling up the record. “Yeah, there it is. Transfer made at the family’s request.”
“That wasn’t me. It must have been his brother.” Irritation flared in my voice. “I don’t have power of attorney.” It wasn’t surprising that Sergey had done this without informing me, but anger coiled tight in my belly.
“Ah.” She pressed her lips into a flat line. “This floor is full. We have an obligation to help critical patients, and right now we have to send them to a different hospital because your husband’s brother is refusing the doctors’ recommendations.”
I understood what she was saying. Sidor wasn’t going to get better, and he was taking up the space of the people who had a chance to improve. All because Sergey Petrov couldn’t accept the fact that his brother wasn’t going to wake up.
He’d also rejected organ donation. His selfishness knew no limits.
She gave me the name of the long-term care facility, the details of the transfer, wished me goodnight, and hurried off to attend to her patients that were still alive.
The wind howled outside, and I felt the walls closing in on me. I was trapped in this room. Trapped in my marriage. I was held captive in a life I didn’t want to be living. Sidor needed to get what he had coming to him.
The plate on the back of the respirator was held in place by one tiny screw. As an artist, I was good with my hands, and I always carried a Swiss Army knife in my purse. I’d used it countless times on various things, everything from cutting open plastic wrap to making last-minute corrections to art before a show opening.
My hands shook as I unscrewed the plate on the back of the respirator. I told myself I could turn back at any time. All I was doing was looking at the battery. The machine was still hooked up to a power source—I hadn’t done anything to disrupt that.
Not yet.
Blood whooshed loudly in my head, drowning out the sound of the clicking machine, the rain beating down on the building, and any voice of reason that would stop me from going further. I moved as if possessed by an uncontrollable force. The battery was unseated, engaging a flashing warning light on the front screen. I turned it upside-down, slipped it back into the slot, and recovered the panel.
I could stop here. It was possible tomorrow when they went to move him, they’d want to rely on the battery, but what were the odds he’d be unplugged long enough before they realized the issue? He’d survived a bullet barreling through his brain. Sergey hadn’t told me about the long-term care. It was entirely likely he’d bar me from the facility, knowing I wouldn’t waste time and money hiring lawyers to fight to see a man I despised.
I wouldn’t get another chance, and I needed to be sure.
I bent and followed the mess of cords snaking behind the machine, which led to a large, thick power cord plugged into the wall. Over the outlet, a warning sticker read in an ominous font, “Life support system. Do not unplug.”
The rubber coating on the cord was cold and slippery in my sweaty hands. It was easier to do what I needed to when I focused on the task and not the outcome. I took a deep, preparatory breath, and tugged.
It wouldn’t budge. It hurt to kneel on the hard, polished floor, but I did it to give myself a better stance. I adjusted my grasp and redoubled my efforts, jerking at the cord, and tried to wrench it free from the outlet. It gave a little, just enough I could see the three metal prongs. I clawed at the plug, short of breath from the exertion and the magnitude of what was about to happen. My heart hammered in my chest, pounded in my ears. I groaned in frustration as I wiggled the stubborn thing side to side, gaining a fraction of an inch each time. Until finally—
It popped free, and I fell backward onto my bottom, squealing across the hard floor with the black cord squeezed in my hands.
A dull alarm sounded on the machine, replacing the soft clicks and hiss, and the flap ceased its slow flutter. I tossed the cord away and scrambled to my feet. How long would it be before someone came running in,
assuming they would?
I sprinted to the door and peered out into the hallway, which was empty, and counted the seconds. Ten went by as the alarm on the respirator wailed. Fifteen. I held my breath while I withheld it from my husband. At twenty seconds, goosebumps tingled down my arms. No one was coming. At thirty seconds, a second alarm blared, intense and angry. I could only assume it meant his pulse had slowed to nothing.
It was just over thirty-four seconds before the nurse appeared, all the way at the other end of the hall. She must have received an alert, because she immediately looked my direction and began to make her way toward me. I cursed her swift footsteps as they brought her closer.
“What’s happening?” I said as she reached me. I channeled my nervous energy into my voice. “Why are the machines making that noise? Why did it stop?” As she went left to try to get around me, I frantically moved that direction, slowing her down. I repeated it as she tried to go the other way.
“Move!” she ordered.
I lost my count of the seconds as she pushed her way into the room and assessed the situation, and time ground to a halt anyway. Her gaze darted to the flat lines and question marks on the monitors, then to the unmoving plunger of the respirator, and on to track the black power cord that disappeared under the wheels of the bed.
Her head snapped to mine, her face full of accusation.
“I tripped over it,” I said weakly. It was a terrible lie and she knew it. My hands still ached from how hard it had been to disengage the power cord. There was no way tripping over the cord would have been enough to yank it from the wall.
“What were you doing?” she demanded as she bent, seized the plug, and stabbed it back into the outlet. One alarm shut off, but the more urgent one continued to sound. She moved with practiced efficiency, silencing it with a single tap of the screen.
We watched the black monitor in taut silence, searching for any change. Had the system been off long enough? Sergey hadn’t wanted to take his brother off life support, but he also didn’t want to drag out the inevitable. He had signed a “Do Not Resuscitate.” If my husband’s heart couldn’t restart itself, there’d be no one else to do it for him.
The waiting was pure agony.
As time dragged on, everything inside me grew tighter. The good, moral part of me shriveled and died right alongside Sidor. Until death do us part, indeed.
I tried to sound heartbroken, but it came out sounding robotic. “Is he dead?”
“You stay here.” The nurse’s tone was clipped. “I need to get a doctor.”
I swallowed hard as she went, trying hard to ignore her judgmental glare. She thought I was a killer, and she wasn’t wrong. I’d sold a piece of my soul, but I’d done what was necessary to save the rest of myself.
I could only hope it wouldn’t backfire on me as badly as the last time.
-5-
NOW
Luke Rafferty’s cruel comment about my time in prison cut me with a thousand knives dripping with shame. I stared at the direction of the grain in the floorboards of his elegant studio.
When I’d been arrested, I pleaded and insisted I hadn’t intended to kill my husband, that he was already brain dead, but it didn’t matter to the State of Illinois. Due to my “extreme disregard” for Sidor Petrov’s health, I’d been charged with murder.
I sold everything I had to pay for an attorney, including art pieces I’d never intended to, even what up to that point I considered my masterpiece. It was just enough to afford a lawyer who was sufficient. There wasn’t enough evidence for a slam-dunk conviction if it went to trial, my lawyer said. The district attorney wasn’t willing to risk it. They wanted guaranteed time and offered me a plea deal.
Manslaughter. Four years for taking another’s life.
Four years for killing a monster who was already dead.
I was out on parole after two. The Petrovs told me it wasn’t enough time, but I knew I’d gotten more than I deserved. Sidor only died once. I died every night in confinement for two long years.
The whole time I was incarcerated, I’d expected my late husband’s family to send someone to kill me, but it didn’t happen. Perhaps Sergey was begrudgingly grateful for the mercy I’d given his family, freeing them of Sidor with none of the guilt. Or perhaps Sergey’s war with the Serbians had escalated so much he didn’t have time to come after me. Either way, he was willing to let me walk away. I’d petitioned my parole officer to move, and it had been granted. Sunny California was as far away from the Petrovs and Volograd as I could get.
Rafferty’s frustrated sigh echoed in his studio and bounced off my broken sculpture. “That was uncalled for. I’m sorry. I’m upset this very beautiful piece is damaged.”
His voice was . . . strange. Was I narcissistic to wonder if he was really talking about me? My gaze traced the lines flowing in the wood below my feet while I tried to find a response. Everything was easier when I could pretend the last decade hadn’t occurred.
“Look at me, Ms. Petrov.”
I wanted to change my name but couldn’t. I’d established it years ago with a big, splashy installation in Chicago that had put my mark on the art community.
His demanding tone lit a fire in my belly, and I cast my attention back to him. The bright yellow of the broken petal peeked out between his tanned fingers. Was he aware he was holding a piece of me? In fact, he held all of me hostage when he took possession of my sculpture.
“Are you going to tell me what you need to fix it, or should I call Garcia Gallery?”
“Please,” I said, faltering. “You don’t know how much this means to me.”
“Don’t insult me further. I understand the piece. I bought the damn thing.” He went to the table and gingerly set the broken shards down. I felt an unexpected sensation of loss, like he’d severed a connection.
“It’s raw and brutal in its beauty,” he continued, placing his hands on his tapered waist, showing off his powerful, muscular arms. He stated it as a widely known fact. “It’s your best work.”
“Thank you.” He made me feel off-balance, and it became worse as he approached.
“You and I both know you have no options here.”
And I didn’t. There was no way to win. The space between us was too small, and his azure eyes were claustrophobic.
“I won’t repair it only so you can destroy it.”
“Excuse me?” Anger swelled in his expression.
When I subtly shifted backward, he stepped forward, bringing us chest to chest. His hot breath rolled over my face.
“I know what you are, Mr. Rafferty. You prey on other artists’ work.”
“I remember that I asked you not to insult me.”
When he grasped my arm, my body went into panic mode, but his expression wasn’t threatening. His touch against my skin was a faint electrical shock, and the hairs on my arm leapt to attention.
His voice was firm, not angry. “You don’t know me, just like I don’t know you. So, stop presuming my reputation or things from my past make up who I am today, and you know what? I’ll do the same for you.”
And then he released me and stepped back.
I stared at him with shock, not from his reaction or my response to him, but from his words. It was exactly what I wanted from the art community. I’d made a terrible mistake and atoned for it, both legally and otherwise. Perhaps . . . not completely. I’d atoned for most of it.
Did Luke Rafferty see some of himself in my sculpture? Was it his new beginning as much as it was mine?
He smoothed a hand over his clean-shaven face as if considering something. “Let’s try this again.” He extended a hand. “I’m Luke. Just Luke.”
Was it possible it could be that easy to hit the reset button? I swallowed thickly. “I’m Nikita.”
It was another zap to my system when he clasped my hand in his firm handshake, only this jolt was a million times stronger. He was a live wire. Electricity poured thro
ugh the connection of our palms. The spark was too powerful to ignore, as much as I was desperate to.
I wanted his beautiful, artistic hands on my body, touching me with the same delicateness he’d used with the sculpture petals, even though the idea scared the hell out of me. Who was I when I was touching him?
“It’s nice to meet you, Nikita.” He continued to hold my hand and used his free one to motion to my sculpture. “This isn’t what I paid for. How do you recommend I proceed?”
His words were professional and friendly, but his tone had an edge of warning, hinting his patience was nearing an end.
I chose to make my stand. “Tell me what you’re going to do, and I will fix it. You have my word.”
His grip squeezed the bones of my hand together. “Your word? We just met, and I have no reason to trust you.”
His refusal meant only bad things were in the future. His hand on mine had felt wonderful at first, but now it was uncomfortable. “Let go of me.”
He blinked slowly and released his intense grip. I yanked away like he’d burned me.
“I won’t be sending it back, Nikita.” He drew each consonant out of my name. Ni-ki-ta. “Correct it, and I’ll tell you what I have planned.” This time his smile was smug. “You have my word.”
I didn’t believe him.
His phone buzzed from his pocket and was snatched up. As he spoke, his gaze was fixed on me, pinning me in place. “This is Luke.”
It was impossible to look at him as he stared at me. My gaze flitted from him to the crowbar he’d set on the table. He was distracted. I should move now. Take the cold crowbar in my hand and swing until there was absolutely nothing of me left.
“Yes, it was damaged, but Ms. Petrov promises to repair it.”
My focus snapped to him, and I let my expression go cold.
He only smirked. “It may take her a few days, but she’ll get it done.”
Days. He was an over-the-top asshole. He must have suspected what I was planning, for he moved between me and the sculpture, blocking it from my view.
“It’s no problem. I understand these things happen. Thank you for sending her.”
