A teddy bear sits there.
I’m not even kidding.
It’s obviously old, stuffing springing out of holes, missing a goddamn eye, and filthy from scruffy head to charred foot. It’s out of place, surrounded by all of this forced elegance.
Serial killers, you know, they sometimes keep souvenirs. Trophies, they call them, reminders of the shit they’ve done so they can relive the moments again and again. Jewelry. Panties. Photographs. Body parts. Whatever got them off, whatever got the blood pumping down below.
And this bear, glowing like a beacon on the mantle, is screaming trophy at me. My insides coil, my stomach churning more and more the more I look at it. We’re talking about a man with a reputation for trafficking women. He’s in the business of selling bodies. I’m putting nothing past him.
If that bear indicates what my mind is conjuring, I’ll burn this house to the ground with all of us inside of it, just so I die with the pleasure of being able to usher that asshole personally straight to hell in the fire.
“Buster.”
The sound of his voice, louder now, draws my attention. I glance back at Aristov, raising an eyebrow in question. Buster?
“The bear,” he says casually, helping himself to the bottle clutched in my hand, pulling it from my grasp. “It is named Buster.”
“You named the fucking thing?”
He laughs. “I did not name it. It came with the name. A stupid one, I say, but what do you expect from a little girl with so much stupid in her blood?”
He laughs, yet again, the sound running through me, striking something raw and setting me off. I don’t think, just react, pulling my gun out and cocking the son of a bitch, aiming it at his forehead.
Seconds. Mere seconds. That was all it took. My finger hovers on the trigger, lightly pressing it. I’ll blow his fucking brains out.
What kind of sick fuck messes with a little girl?
He stares at me.
He doesn’t cower.
Doesn’t beg.
Doesn’t ask those stupid questions I always get.
No, he takes a swig of vodka, a slight smile on his lips, and just waits, like he doesn’t think I’ll do it. I’m not a man who hesitates, but I’m also not a man used to dealing with such fearlessness.
After a few seconds, while he’s still breathing, he pulls the bottle from his lips, pointing it at me as he asks, “Did she tell you about her?”
“Who?”
“My Morgan,” he says. “Your Scarlet. That is what you call her, no?”
“What about her?”
“Did she tell you about Sasha?”
Sasha.
I don’t answer that, having no idea what he’s talking about, but that’s all the answer he needs.
He laughs yet again.
“Oh, no, of course she has not told you,” he says. “Why would she? Silly man, with a gun... go ahead, shoot me. She will be heartbroken when you do. You will be killing her, too. Either way, I win.”
Before I can do anything, he shoves up from the chair, his forehead momentarily pressing against the muzzle as he rises to his feet. I keep the gun trained on him as he strolls over to the fireplace. He hesitates, standing there, staring at the mantle, before he grabs the bear. His hand wraps around the thing, clutching it by the neck as he approaches.
He drops it on the table in front of me.
“Take it,” he says. “It is only collecting dust here now. I am sure it will make Morgan happy to see it again.”
He steps by me to walk away. I keep the gun trained on him, but I still don’t pull the trigger.
Color me curious. “Who’s Sasha?”
Aristov stalls in the doorway, glancing back at me. I don’t expect him to answer, figuring he’ll give me some line about asking Scarlet, when he lets out a deep sigh and says, “My daughter, of course.”
Daughter.
Of course.
Puzzle pieces I never bothered to connect shove themselves together, like I should’ve already riddled out the bigger picture here. The man has a daughter, and it’s not taking a genius to figure out where he might’ve gotten that daughter.
Or rather, who gave him that daughter.
I saw the scar on her stomach.
I see it every time she takes off her clothes.
It’s there, more prominent than the other scars peppering her body, but she’s never brought it up, so I always let it go. Whatever story is behind it must be one she doesn’t want to tell. Because I’ve given her ample opportunity to spill it. Tell me a story. But she’d rather spew some bullshit fairy tales.
I know scars, though. I know the kind of scar a bullet leaves behind. I know the kind left from a knife. Gashes, and welts, and burns—the scars are recognizable. I can read a body like a book and tell you everything it has been through. A litany of fucking horror stories written right onto the flesh. I know the story of a metal shovel to the face, blunt force trauma that should’ve killed a teenage boy but instead turned him into a nightmare.
But the most recognizable scars are deliberate, the ones caused by a carefully controlled cut with a scalpel. I know when you’ve had your appendix removed, when you’ve had open-heart surgery, when you’ve had a tracheotomy…
And I know when you’ve had C-section.
It’s damn near impossible to hide that truth.
Easier to ignore, though.
Believe me, I ignored it.
Can’t ignore it anymore.
I’m a fucking fool.
“Where is she?” I ask. “Your daughter?”
He smiles. “Shoot me, Mister Scar, and you will never know.”
I don’t take kindly to being threatened.
Blackmail? Coercion? Not fucking happening.
I get it, you know... there are consequences to every action. Cause and effect. If this, then that. But there are consequences to inaction, too, and that’s something people don’t often realize.
Scarlet is living the consequences right now because nobody has stopped this from happening.
My stepfather’s voice bounces around in my head as I sit in the passenger seat of my car, slouching down in the dark, the obnoxious ding-ding-dinging of the put on your fucking seatbelt warning echoing through the small space.
A clear conscience just means you’ve got a bad memory. He used to say it all the time. And I’ve gotta tell you, right about now, I wish I could catch a case of amnesia and have my memory wiped, because my conscience is muddled tonight.
“Speak,” I say sharply, my voice making Seven jump as he speeds toward Queens. He keeps casting sidelong glances my way, not saying a damn word, subtlety not his strong suit. “Ask your questions or get out of my car.”
“What happened?”
“What happened?” I repeat. “You wanna maybe specify a bit? Because a lot has happened in my life, Seven, and I’m not interested in spilling my guts to you like a little bitch.”
He hesitates, turning on the blinker to make a left turn. Once he’s onto the next road, merging back into traffic, he lets out an exaggerated sigh. “Lets go with why do you have a teddy bear?”
“Gift from my favorite philosopher,” I say, glaring at the thing as it rests on the dashboard.
Seven doesn’t understand, but it’s not my place to explain it to him. Hell, I’m still trying to wrap my head around it all. I get it, it’s all there, but how to deal with it is another matter.
The more he stays out of it, the better off he is.
“Look, they’ve got history,” I say. “He wants her back. She doesn’t want to go. He’s getting desperate. That’s all you really need to know. I was going to shoot him, but I decided not to, so here we are. You’re all caught up. Now get me to my house, and then go home to your wife, and don’t worry about what else might’ve happened, because it’s not your problem. Just worry about yourself.”
He nods once and says nothing else, the rest of the drive complete silence.
Well, except for the seatbe
lt warning.
The house is lit up when I get there. Seven gives me my keys, and I take my phone, before snatching up the old teddy bear, carrying it by its burned foot.
I head inside, saying goodnight to Seven.
The first thing I hear when I open the front door is another goddamn song being sung.
Someone put Baby in a corner and Patrick Swayze got pissed. Blah. Blah. Blah. You know what it is.
Leo and his girlfriend are cuddling on the new couch. I slip right past them, heading for the library, finding it empty and dark. The first thing I notice, though, is my puzzle has been fixed, the broken pieces stuck back together.
No Scarlet, though.
Walking back out, I head for the stairs, hearing my brother shout out as I pass the living room. “Hey, bro!”
I stall in the doorway, nodding in greeting. “You seen Scarlet?”
“No,” he says. “Might be upstairs, though.”
“I figured.”
“I see you got us a new couch.” He runs his hand along the leather arm. “Where’d you get it?”
“Stole it from a strip club.”
He laughs, like I’m joking, so I just walk off before he comes to the realization that he’s cuddling his girlfriend on a couch where dozens of men have probably jacked off.
I trudge upstairs. It’s dark. I think maybe she’s trying to sleep, but the bed is empty, as is the bathroom. I turn to leave when my gaze catches something in my reflection above the dresser.
Reaching over, I flick on the light, stopping where I am. Lipstick is smeared on the mirror, two words scribbled in red.
I’m sorry.
She’s gone.
I know it.
Those words tell me that.
That’s as good as a ‘goodbye’ as I’m probably getting, as far as farewells go with this woman.
I don’t like it.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Sunrise is coming.
There’s a hint of light on the horizon, the pitch black sky a deep purple hue in the east, slowly pushing toward blue. Another hour or so and the skyline will be streaked with colors, orange and pink and white as the sun settles in, daylight arriving. It’s weird, the twitch of anticipation I feel.
I haven’t watched the sun come up in weeks. I’m still awake whenever it happens, my internal clock set to see it, but the clouds or buildings have blocked my view.
I miss it.
I miss her.
I try not to think about it so much. Maybe that’s hard for you to understand. But dwelling gets me no closer to finding the end to this drawn-out nightmare. So I compartmentalize. I tuck it away, deep inside of me, locking it up somewhere safe where the world can’t touch it, where reality can’t reach it or try to take it from me. It gets me through every minute of every hour. Without it, I’m not sure I’d survive much longer.
“Shove your apology up your ass, Scarlet. I don’t accept it.”
The voice calls out behind me, loud and brash, a genuine hint of anger in his words that makes a chill flow through me.
Lorenzo.
I’m standing on the ledge on the roof of this apartment building again, one of the last places I should be, probably, but I knew I’d be able to catch the sunrise from here.
Guess he knew it, too.
Didn’t take him long to find me.
I didn’t expect him to bother, to be honest, but there’s that little part of me that selfishly hoped he cared. He shouldn’t, because I bring nothing but trouble, but still… I yearn to mean something.
Do you know what that’s like?
To know you’re poison but still be desperate for someone to sip from you anyway?
“Did you kill him?” I ask quietly, staring out at the city, over toward Brooklyn, where I know he went last night. Where I know he heard my truth. How much of it, I’m not sure, but knowing Kassian, it would be just enough.
“Wanted to,” he says. “Thought about it. Almost did it. But no, he’s still alive.”
The relief I feel sickens me. The world around me spins. I close my eyes, to take a deep breath, trying to calm my achey chest.
I hear Lorenzo approach. He purposely snuck up on me, making no noise on his way to the roof, but he’s being deliberate about it now, warning me he’s coming closer.
Opening my eyes again, I carefully turn around, words on the tip of my tongue about how I truly am sorry he got mixed up in my mess, when the wind is knocked right out of me. It feels like a fist slams into my gut. I gasp. My heart stalls. My vision grows hazy until I see nothing.
I almost collapse.
My knees go weak, legs starting to buckle, foot slipping on the edge of the ledge. I sway, damn near falling, the sight hitting me like tank.
Buster.
Lorenzo holds the teddy bear upside down by its foot. It’s in worse shape than I’ve ever seen it, but I know that bear.
I’d recognize it anywhere.
“Jesus fuck.” Something flashes in Lorenzo’s eyes. It almost looks like fear. He darts forward, snatching ahold of me, yanking me back onto the roof. I slip again, almost falling, this time onto him, but he keeps me upright, slamming me back against the ledge, pinning me there with his body. “I swear to God, if you throw yourself off this roof, I’m jumping after you, and I’m going to catch you.”
Whoa. I don’t know what to make of those words.
My eyes widen, my heart racing.
“I’ll catch you,” he says again, his face so close to mine I can feel his breath on my skin, “because in those few seconds before you hit the ground, I’m going to fucking choke the life out of you for doing that shit. You got me?”
“I got you,” I whisper, surprised I can even speak.
He keeps me pinned there, pressed flat up against me, staring me dead in the face. I’m frozen, like I’m made from stone, unable to move... unable to look. He’s holding it in his hand, and I don’t know why, and I don’t know what it means, but it’s the closest I’ve gotten to her in ten long months. I need it to be real.
“I got you,” he says, his voice low, serious, and I think at first he’s just echoing what I said, until he raises his eyebrows, emphasizing them. “I got you. It’s okay.”
I blink rapidly, my eyes burning, a lump in my throat that I’m struggling to swallow back.
“I got you,” he says for the third time, “but I’m telling you, if you start fucking crying on me right now, if you start boo-hoo’ing, there’s a chance I’ll just throw you over the side myself, so don’t do it.”
“I’m trying not to,” I whisper, my voice cracking.
“Good,” he says. “You think I can let go? You think you can stand up on your own?”
I nod.
He lets go of me, taking a step back.
As soon as he does, my feet come out from under me, and I slide right down to the roof on my ass. My shirt catches on the ledge, the old crumbly bricks scraping my back, as a noise comes out of me. A loud noise. An inhuman noise. I quickly cover my mouth to stifle it.
Tears burn my eyes, obscuring my vision.
Buster is right there, inches from my face.
I reach for the bear, grasping hold of its arm, and Lorenzo relinquishes it to me, not hesitating at all. As I clutch it to my chest, I pull my knees up, folding into myself. Tears break free and stream down my cheeks.
I cry.
Fuck it.
I can’t hold it back anymore.
My chest aches, my stomach clenches, and I can’t catch my breath because I cry so hard. I’m hyperventilating, a mess, falling apart. Lorenzo just stands there, not consoling me, but he doesn’t leave, either. He stays right in front of me, staring out into the city, as I sob.
“I asked one thing of you,” he says when I calm down. “One thing. That’s it. I said don’t cry.”
I laugh at that, although my tears are still falling, laughing and crying at the same time, like a maniac. It’s not funny, no, but it’s so fucked up that I can’t h
elp myself. “Sorry.”
“Jesus... don’t apologize, either. Stop saying you’re sorry all the fucking time.”
I want to point out that I’ve said it only maybe three times to him total, and that I should be apologizing, but I keep my mouth shut as I wipe my face on my shirt, trying to dry my eyes. I know it makes him uncomfortable. Emotion. Remorse. Tears. Apologies. The whole nine yards.
I press my face against the teddy bear, inhaling deeply. Dust tickles my nose. It smells musty. It doesn’t smell at all like sunshine or innocence. There’s no her in the bear anymore.
I don’t know what happened.
More tears fall, silent ones this time. I wipe them away and just sit there, hugging Buster.
After a moment, Lorenzo lets out a dramatic sigh before sitting down on the roof beside me, maybe a foot of space between us. We’re not touching, but he’s close enough that I can feel his warmth.
“Are you done crying now?” he asks.
I laugh again. “You’re such an asshole.”
“I was going to talk to you,” he says, “but you might blow snot on me with all that blubbering.”
I shake my head, wiping my nose on my sleeve. I’m a mess, but there’s nothing else I can do about it. It isn’t like he brought along any tissues.
Turning my head, I gaze at him. The sky is steadily lightening. I can make him out better now than when he showed up. Uneasiness wafts from him as he picks at the skin around his fingernails, out of his element. For the first time since I’ve met this man, he’s letting his nerves show, his guard lowering just enough for me to see it. I can tell he doesn’t want to be doing this, but he’s doing it, and that’s not something I ever expected from him.
He doesn’t owe me anything.
He glances at me, surveying my face. Reaching over, he grabs my right hand, turning it over, palm up, my wrist bending as he pushes the tattoo there toward me. My Scarlet Letter, he calls it.
I glance down at it. “Sasha.”
“Pity,” he says. “I hoped it would end up standing for ‘salad tosser’. I was looking forward to it.”
I roll my eyes, snatching my hand back away.
“It was different at first,” I say, running my fingers along the ridges of the tattoo, feeling for the scar beneath it. I can even still see it, if I look hard enough. “He carved an ‘S’ into my wrist. I hated it… hated seeing it. It stood for something else back then.”
Menace Page 31
