by Colt, Elodie
I just down my next shot in response.
“What happened?”
I heave a sigh. “She didn’t answer my invitation to our sixth date. She didn’t contact me at all for six days.”
Nick huffs a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “That damn number six again.”
“It’s not about the number six.” It’s totally about the number six. “Something happened. I know it. Or maybe she felt I pushed her into meeting in private and bailed out.”
“But she didn’t cancel the date yet, did she?”
“No. She only said she’ll be in touch.”
“Then give her time and let her come to you. Don’t sweat it, Nathan. It only makes your gorgeous hair gray sooner.”
Nick’s phone rings, and I refocus on my last shot, only half-listening to him mumbling into the speaker.
“Shit,” he mutters when he ends the call.
“What?”
“That was Valerie. The interpreter we hired for the Russian exhibition had a skiing accident and is in the hospital with multiple fractures. We have to find someone else for the job asap.”
“You do that.” I slap a few bills onto the counter. “I’m going to take the next flight back tonight.”
“What?” Nick exclaims in bewilderment. “Why? We’ve still got a meeting tomorrow with—”
“You’ve got it covered,” I interrupt him with a clap on the shoulder.
He throws up his hands in desperation. “But it’s New Year’s Eve tomorrow. Why the hurry all of a sudden? Please, tell me it’s not because of her.”
I give him a pointed look.
“Nathan, don’t be ridiculous. You can’t force her if she refuses to talk to you, and flying back won’t change anything.”
I swing my suit jacket over my shoulders and stuff my arms through the sleeves.
‘What do you have to lose?’ Carl said that day in my office when he asked me to join Silent Sins.
Devon, is the answer.
Devon, the dragonfly girl. My dragonfly girl.
I won’t let her continue to play Russian Roulette with me, waiting until she pulls the trigger. And what are the odds that the next bullet hits me?
Let me tell you…
One-in-six.
If God decides to send me to hell when my time comes, I’m prepared. Because no matter what kind of torture Lucifer has in store for me, I can say, ‘Been there, done that.’
That night after visiting Kate in the hospital, I knocked myself out with sleeping pills. And the day after, too. Then I got the flu and spent most of the time slumped over the toilet, so it wasn’t even a lie when I told Zoya I’d miss out on the New Year’s Eve party because I was puking my guts out.
And when the flu was over, alcohol became my best friend.
I unscrew the cap of my vodka bottle and take a tiny sip, the sharp flavors barely activating my taste buds. It’s my last bottle. Tonight, it will be empty, just like the other dozen littered on the table and on the floor and on the nightstand and wherever else I drunk myself into a coma.
I’ve hit rock bottom. And as it stands, I won’t be able to get my ass up ever again.
I attach the bottle to my lips again, allowing myself a bigger gulp before I set it down with a bang, my eyes narrowed at the square box in the middle of the table.
I haven’t opened it yet. It laid three days on the doormat. I’d hoped it would disappear into thin air, but it didn’t, so I brought it inside and flung it onto the table where it has been sitting ever since. Part of me wishes it was a bomb. Then at least everything would be over. Because I know that, whatever I’m going to find inside, will be far worse.
It feels as if my eyes are starting to bleed the longer I stare at the silver box with its blood-red bow. My fingers itch to grab a match, light it up, and set that damn thing on fire. Let it burn until the entire place goes up in flames, too. But knowing my luck and the sheer depth of Luka’s obsession, he’d follow me into the afterlife right away, so the way I see it, not even death would end my suffering.
My phone lights up for the hundredth time in my periphery. I’ve put it on mute. I couldn’t stand the endless string of calls and messages anymore. I couldn’t stand the pings and knock-knocks that made me jump in my seat. It’s only a matter of time before Zoya storms my apartment to teach me a lesson.
I needed to shut them all out. To shut out Zoya with her never-ending questions. To shut out Ross with his heart-breaking words. To shut out Kate with her pain-stabbing messages about how it wasn’t my fault what happened to her, and that she’s totally fine, and that she’ll be able to get back to work next week.
With a last swig of vodka and a trembling breath, I reach for the box. Beads of sweat form on my forehead as I slowly pull at the bow, letting the silky strip float onto the table. Tendrils of dread and terror weave through my insides as my shaky hands dig into the wrapping paper, tearing it open.
A black carton box. Nothing out of the ordinary.
But I know with every fiber of my body that I’m going to break as soon as I look inside.
And break I do.
Right there on the table into a million pieces.
My chin trembles, and I choke out a sob as my fingers curl around the black-and-white picture on top. Mom is lying in her bed, and I’m sitting next to her, tears streaming down my face as I clutch her hand. It was the moment she pressed the letter into my hands shortly before she died.
And the chipped plaster of the rough wall peeking out on the outer edge tells me exactly where Luka stood when he took the picture.
Right outside Mom’s bedroom window.
But it doesn’t end there because further down is another, smaller box, this one covered in blue satin. Bile rises up my throat when I open the lid only to find a tiny Fabergé egg in royal-blue sitting on a velvet pad. I don’t touch it because my eyes are on the note neatly folded at the bottom—the note that will make this nightmare reality.
My dearest Elenka,
I know we parted ways on a bad note. I know I scared you off. I know I pushed too hard. Please understand that I only ever meant well.
You mean more to me than I could ever put into words. I hope you’ll forgive me for how I handled things in the past. I’ve learned from my mistakes. I will always look after you.
Merry Christmas, my love.
Luka
Blind panic grips me by the throat, and I clutch the edge of the table as the room starts to spin. The sudden rock-hard feeling in my stomach makes me gag, and I jump to my feet, sprinting for the bathroom before I collapse over the toilet.
There’s not much to get out of my system other than the gallons of vodka I’ve consumed like water, but the retching won’t stop, my belly heaving with one cramp after another until I’m almost hyperventilating.
I don’t know how long I lie there draped around the toilet seat, but I must have blacked out at some point because dusk already darkens the room. With a grunt, I heave myself up from the cold tiles and flush the toilet before I fumble for the switch on the wall to turn on the lights.
Tentatively, I lift my eyes to look at my reflection in the mirror, and immediately wish I hadn’t. I don’t even recognize myself anymore. My face is so pale, I could rival an albino, and the dark circles rimming my eyes could be perfectly applied Halloween make-up. My cheekbones and collarbones protrude from under my skin as a result of my don’t-eat-just-drink-until-you-pass-out diet. The nauseating feeling in my belly tells me I need food, but the mere thought of eating makes me sick all over again. My fridge is empty. I haven’t left the house for more than a week, not even to shop for groceries, and ordering food isn’t an option, either, because I’d have to open my door to a stranger.
A stranger that could be Luka seizing the opportunity to slip into my apartment.
I grip the basin as my stomach heaves again, but I fight the urge to vomit, turning on the faucet and taking a few gulps of water to rehydrate my body. I’m weak, and my legs tremble the mo
ment I try to move, so I slump against the wall and sag down, succumbing to yet another nuclear meltdown.
Luka has found me. The roots of his obsession are so deep, he followed me all the way to the US, lying in wait for more than a year. Everything was in vain—changing my name, my number, my address, my passwords… Everything.
God only knows how long he’s been watching my every move. Probably from the very moment I stepped out of the plane at John F. Kennedy Airport. He was patient. Careful to hide in the shadows and follow me at every turn. He knows I signed up for Silent Sins, something that surely made him furious. He even went as far as breaking into eNtimacy’s headquarters to hack into their system and hurt an employee just to find out who I’m dating.
A trembling sob rattles out of my sore throat as I clutch my necklace, gripping the dragonfly pendant so hard, my knuckles turn white.
I was so close to throwing my insecurities out the window. So close to offering Ross my trust, opening up to him, and meeting him in private. So close to stop running from my fears and build a new life.
But now, I’m left with no other option than to say goodbye to Silent Sins for good. To say goodbye to Ross.
Luka has never been violent before. Erratic and irritable and volatile, yes, but he never resorted to physical abuse.
Until he hurt Kate.
Tears prickle my eyes, and it doesn’t take long until they burst out like waterfalls. My whole body quakes with tremors, and I hug my knees, curling up into a tight ball.
“Argh!” I scream in despair, grabbing fistfuls of my greasy hair.
Ross…
I wish he was here. I wish he could take me into his arms, hold me tight and shield me from this brutal world. I wish he would croon sweet things into my ear and fuck me long and hard until I go limp in his arms.
You could call him, a tiny voice in my head says. You could ask him to come here right now.
And I have no doubt he would.
Panting like mad, I scramble up and stagger into the kitchen to grab my phone. The tears blur my vision, and I furiously wipe them away so I can see what I’m doing. My finger hovers over the Silent Sins app while my brain reels.
Call him. Do it!
I close my eyes against the emotions crushing me. I can’t drag Ross into this, no matter how much I want him by my side right now, so there’s really only one person left for me to call, and she picks up on the first ring.
“Zoya, I need you.”
~~~
Not even ten minutes later, Zoya busts in, panting.
“I came here as fast as I could. What—Oh, my God…” Zoya trails off, the shock audible in her voice as her gaze swerves over the empty bottles, stained surfaces, dirty clothes, and whatever else makes the space look like a man cave after a bachelorette party.
Dropping her bag, she rushes over to me cowering in front of the aquarium and pulls me into a tight hug, one that lets the dam burst once more, shaking me with sobs. She rocks me from side to side until my chokes subside, and my tears dry out. Taking my hand, she pulls me up and drags me over to the kitchen table where I collapse into a chair.
“Talk to me, Ella,” she begs, sitting down opposite me and scooting closer.
I don’t say anything and just pluck the picture from the table, pressing it into her hands. Her forehead creases as she examines it.
“What is that? I mean, I know what that is, but who took the picture?”
Lifting my swollen eyes, I throw her an ominous look. “Luka.”
Her head jerks up, surprise masking her features. “Your stalker?”
I manage a feeble nod.
“But… but I thought he disappeared a long time ago.”
“He never left,” I deadpan. “Zoya, I need to tell you something…”
She squeezes my thigh. “Shoot.”
“Mom’s death wasn’t the reason I moved to America. He was the reason.”
“What? But you told me—”
“I told you what you needed to hear,” I cut her off, waiting for my words to sink in.
She narrows her eyes at me. “You lied to me? Why?”
“Because it was a huge burden on you.”
She opens her mouth to say something, but I raise my hand.
“I did what I thought was right. Luka never stopped. In fact, it became worse with each month, but I couldn’t leave Mom in her condition, so I stayed. The day after her funeral, I packed my stuff and took the next flight here.”
“So, that’s the reason for all this.” She gestures to the window sensors, and I nod.
Her gaze falls on the note Luka left in the box. I wring my hands as she reads the message, her expression darkening by the second.
When she’s done, she slaps the note onto the table. “Call the police.”
Shaking my head, I heave a sigh. “It’s useless. I already filed multiple restraining orders back in Russia and tried to get them to do something about it, but it was a waste of time. And even if they acted on it, they won’t lock him up unless they have physical evidence that Luka Sokolov is a serious threat.”
Well, he is a serious threat now that he turned violent on Kate. Maybe that will help my case, but Zoya would be sick with worry if she knew he beat someone to a pulp just to get to me.
“What are you going to do now? Rot away in this shithole?” She waves her hands in the air, gesturing to the mess that is my apartment.
I hunch my shoulders. “I don’t know…There’s not much I can do. Even if I moved to—”
“No way,” she throws in with a raised voice. “You won’t start running again, Ella.”
“Zoya,” I say, leaning closer to her. “You don’t understand. That guy was my constant shadow. He followed me everywhere. He broke into my car. He broke into my fucking bedroom.”
Zoya blanches visibly.
“I can’t even go to the grocery store without him on my heels. This guy is ruining my life. I can’t go on like this!”
Her nostrils flare with a sharp breath before she launches to her feet to get her bag and rips open the zipper.
“You. Won’t. Run,” she says in a deadly voice, pulling out… a gun.
“Zoya, what—”
“A Glock 43, nine millimeter. Shoots from point blank up to seven yards. An every day carry pistol to holster like a wallet.” She slides the black gun over the table along with a magazine and a handful of bullets. “Slap in the magazine, rack the gun, and tuck your shirt over.”
With my mouth hanging open, I gape at the weapon that’s about the size of my hand. Yeah, there’s a knife underneath my pillow, but really, it’s just a means to silence my conscience. Zoya is dead serious, though.
I gulp. “You want me to kill him?”
Zoya cocks an eyebrow. “Don’t tell me you haven’t been thinking about it.”
Of course, I have. However, I’ve been thinking about something subtler, like slipping into the role of the naive girl, inviting him over for a date, and putting poison into his drink. Unfortunately, the dark ages where you can get a vial in exchange for gold are over, and it’s not as if I can purchase some at the pharmacy.
Zoya slams her hand on the table and leans down until our noses nearly touch, her eyes boring into mine.
“Take him out, and I’ll help you bury his corpse,” she growls in a lethal tone.
My phone blinks with an incoming call, and we both turn our heads to the device lying on the floor.
“Unknown caller,” Zoya muses. “Could this be him?”
“I don’t know,” I stutter, my heart rate spiking up.
Taking matters into her own hands, Zoya picks up and puts the call on speaker. “Ella Jenkins, hello?”
I shoot her a what-the-fuck look, but she just waves her hands about, telling me to let her do the talking.
“Hello, Ms. Jenkins, this is Valerie Fisher speaking from Crawford Crescent,” a female voice resounds. “Sorry to disturb you at this late hour, but it’s a rather urgent matter. Do you have a m
inute?”
Zoya and I exchange surprised looks, and I shake my head, signaling that I have no idea why someone from a jewel gallery would have a reason to call me.
“Uh, sure,” Zoya says, imitating my voice eerily well.
“Great. We’re staging a Russian exhibition at our main gallery in Manhattan on Saturday. Unfortunately, the Russian interpreter we hired had an accident, and we’re in desperate need of a replacement. The exhibition is in two days, so we had no luck yet finding someone suitable for the job on such short notice over the Christmas holidays, and I just came upon your website and was wondering if you’d be interested?”
“Uhm…” Zoya arcs an eyebrow at me in question, and I shake my head vehemently.
“We’d be willing to pay you accordingly,” Valerie adds, and Zoya perks her ears.
“How much?”
“A thousand dollars.”
Zoya’s jaw unhinges, and I have to admit, this is quite a salary for just a couple of hours.
“Let me check my calendar real quick.”
I motion for Zoya to mute the call, but she doesn’t, and the following conversation between Zoya and me consists of animated hand signs and other obscene gestures. I haven’t left these four walls for a week, and she expects me to go out on Saturday and show up at a fancy jewel gallery?
“Yeah, looks good. I’d be happy to take the job,” Zoya announces at last, leaving me gaping at her.
“Awesome,” the girl on the other end of the line says, clearly relieved. “I’ll send you over a digital brochure so you can get acquainted with the topic.”
“Sounds great.”
“Perfect! Thank you, Ms. Jenkins.”
“Bye.”
I wait until the line goes dead. “What the fuck?”
“No more running. No more hiding,” Zoya declares, nodding to the gun on the table. “You’re going to fight.”
I chew on my lip. “You know they won’t let me inside the gallery with a gun in my bag.”
“I’ll give you a ride, and your stalker asshole can’t follow you inside. This exhibition sounds like an invitation-only event.”
My gaze trails off to the side as I consider this, and Zoya takes a few steps closer.
