Shoving the gun away from me, I swivel in my seat to face her. “Yeah.”
She lifts the autograph I got from Milla Jovovich and taps a finger on it, lost in childhood events while I’m lost in killing fantasies.
“The zombies scared you to death,” she says with a chuckle. “You couldn’t shut an eye the entire night.”
Good old times. I’d take an army of zombies over Luka fucking Sokolov any day.
“Yeah…”
My usual, mechanical response these days.
Yesterday, at Crawford Crescent, it was all I could do not to run away and just focus on my job. No matter how much I’d tried to convince myself that Luka couldn’t possibly be in the same building, the fear of him lurking in the shadows clung to me like a sticky layer of ice.
Then again, I’d never earned a thousand dollars so fast.
Zoya rises from the couch and shuffles into the kitchen, scraping a hand through her spiky hair and making it look even messier.
“Coffee?” she asks.
“Yeah.”
I pluck at a loose thread on my shirt, my knee bouncing underneath the table. After my drinking escapade last week, I feel the lack of alcohol in my blood. An ice-cold bottle of Vodka Mamont is waiting for me in the fridge, but Zoya won’t let me have a sip. She’s been around a lot these days, making sure that I eat, sleep, and talk. As much as I love having her around, her constant need to watch over me like a compromised suicide victim annoys the hell out of me.
My phone rings, and I flinch, my eyes darting to the screen. Unknown number. I quickly decline the call.
“Who was that?” Zoya asks when she sets a steaming mug of coffee in front of me.
“None of your business,” I snap, trying to hide my apprehension. Unknown caller ID’s are a red rag to me.
Zoya stays unfazed by my crabby attitude. “I still don’t get why you haven’t changed your number.”
“Maybe because it would be as futile as changing my name, my identity, and moving to another fucking continent.”
With a grunt, I push to my feet and saunter into the living room to feed my dragonflies. Luka knows where I live. He knows when I’m home. He knows about Silent Sins. Hell, he probably knows when I’m about to take a piss, lying in wait on top of a building like a sniper ready to eliminate his target. Back in Russia, I changed my number three times, and it didn’t do shit, so what’s the point? As long as Luka Sokolov is still roaming this earth, he will find me, even if he has to crawl on all fours.
I open a can of blood worms, and Skitters, Bitsy, and Hopper snap their jaws in agitation when I drop their food into the water. Spidey is the last one to get a piece of his share, his damaged wing slowing him down, and I save him an extra fat worm for last.
Zoya comes up from behind me, leaning down to watch my pets. She points at Spidey as he drags his crooked wing out of the water.
“His wing will never heal again, but maybe, he’ll still be able to fly,” she says in hushed tones.
“Yeah, maybe…”
No, he won’t. I know better. Spidey will never soar into the air. He’s broken. He can never live a life outside his cage.
Just like me.
Jaded, I amble back into the kitchen to grab my mug. Mom smiles down at me from inside her golden frame on the wall. God, how I wish she were here right now, telling me everything will be fine. How I wish she could pull me into a hug and press a sticky lipstick-kiss onto my cheek.
How I wish I could text Ross and tell him everything. How I wish I could meet him one more time, letting his deep voice seep into me as he speaks the words I’ve come to crave.
My dragonfly girl.
I press my eyes shut, fighting the urge to rub a hand over my heart and instead grabbing the gold charm around my neck, just for something to hold on.
When all of this is over, I’ll come back to you, Ross. Will you wait for me?
I exhale a shaky breath. I don’t even know if Ross is still a Silent Sins member. He could have quit, for all I know. They closed our chat last time I checked. Kate contacted me earlier today, informing me that their legal team found out about my fake birth certificate. I feared they’d kick me out of their case study, but Kate supported my cause. So, my membership is valid until the free six-month period is over. No idea why she bent over backward for me. Maybe she blames herself for not keeping her promise to protect my file which is silly considering she landed in the hospital thanks to me.
Slurping my coffee, I shuffle back into the living room where Zoya has made herself comfortable on the couch and plop down in front of my computer. I scowl at the papers on my desk. My motivation to translate the three death certificates is about as high as that day Zoya took me for a polar bear plunge on New Year’s Eve, but I know I can’t put off work any longer.
Propping my head up with a fist, I set my mug aside and check my inbox first. An email from Crawford Crescent popped in about an hour ago, sent from the contact form on my website.
RSVP - Urgent Request for Russian Interpretation
Nathan Crawford, the CEO of Crawford Crescent, sent the email personally, and I straighten in my seat as I open it. Apparently, the gallery lost my contact information and is now on the search for the Russian interpreter from yesterday with another job offer.
See how insignificant you are? They couldn’t even remember your damn name.
I scoff. No matter how well they pay, I have no intention to do another interpretation in front of so many people anytime soon. There’s a shit ton of work waiting on my desk, and I still need to figure out how to live a somewhat normal life with a stalker who could kidnap me the very moment I step out onto the streets.
I mark the email to respond to later when the doorbell rings simultaneously with my phone, and I jump in my seat, almost knocking over my coffee. I leer at the screen that shows the live view of the camera outside. Two people stand in front of my apartment, waiting for me to invite them in.
But not just any people gathering from the navy blue, short-sleeved jackets with radios strapped to their shoulders and thick belts around their hips.
Cops.
Shit!
“Who’s that?” Zoya asks, oblivious to my panic attack.
I gulp, clutching the edge of my desk. Kate warned me that they were about to show up. I’d just hoped I could leave Zoya out of this.
The doorbell chirps again—three times.
“Ella?” Zoya asks when I dart up and bustle into the kitchen. “What’s going on?”
“The cops.”
I grab the gun and jam it into a cabinet.
“The cops?” She rushes over to me. “But why—”
Raising my hands, I shut her off. “Sorry, I didn’t tell you earlier. Just… keep cool and let me handle this, okay?”
She gapes at me while I smooth down my hair to appear somewhat presentable. Taking a deep breath, I open the door.
“Ms. Jenkins?” the man with short, dirty blond hair asks in a tone as flat as his nose, not waiting for my response as he flashes me his license. “NYPD. I’m officer Andrew Baker, this is officer Nancy Scott.” He points to the small, chubby woman next to him with a red-dyed bob that doesn’t compliment her skin tone. “May we come in?”
Do I have a choice?
With a curt nod, I open the door wider and lead them into the kitchen. Their heavy boots stomp on the floor as they follow me, and we all sit down around the table.