I cross the tiny room in one step, my hand closing around his throat. I lift him up and slam his head against the tile wall.
Jackson lets out a terrified squeak, scrabbling at the hand closed around his throat. His glasses have come askew, and his feet kick helplessly in the air.
“I watched your show tonight,” I say casually.
“Can’t . . . breathe . . .” he rasps, his face turning a deep burgundy.
“It’s funny . . . I recognized some of the choreography. Do you know Nessa Griffin? I saw her work in your show. But I didn’t see her credited anywhere.”
I lower him down slightly, just enough that he can support his own weight on tiptoe, but not enough for him to be comfortable. I relax my grip so he can speak.
“What are you talking about?” he sputters. “I don’t know any—”
“Wrong answer,” I say, hoisting him up again.
His fingernails claw at my hands and forearms. I could not give a shit about that. I keep choking him until he starts to pass out, then I lower him down again.
“Wakey wakey,” I say, slapping the side of his face.
“Ow! Let go of me!” Jackson shrieks, coming to again.
“Let’s try this again. You remember Nessa Griffin?”
A sullen silence. Then a resentful, “Yes.”
“You remember how you stole her work and passed it off as your own?”
“I didn’t—”
Another slam of his head against the wall and Jackson shrieks, “Alright, alright! She did some work on the show.”
“For which you failed to credit her.”
He screws up his face like I’m forcing him to eat moldy porridge. Then he says, “Yes.”
“I’m glad we agree.”
I let him down. Before he can so much as blink, I grab his left arm and twist it up behind his back. I already know from watching him drink his beer that he’s a lefty. I wrench it all the way back until he’s shrieking and sweating again.
“Stop! Stop!” he cries. “What do you expect me to do? The show’s already over!”
“You make it up to her,” I say.
“How!?”
“I’ll leave that to you to figure out.”
“But . . . but . . .”
“What?”
“Nessa’s gone! People say she’s dead.”
“Nessa is alive and well. Don’t worry about her, worry about yourself. Worry what I’ll do to you if I’m displeased with your solution.”
“Fine! Whatever you want! Just let go of me,” Jackson pants.
“I will. But first, there’s a price to pay.”
With one swift twist, I send a spiral fracture down his radius, clamping a hand over his mouth to stifle the scream. It’s gross, because snot and tears and saliva are getting all over my hand. But such is business.
I let go of Jackson. He slumps down on the floor, moaning and sniveling.
“We’ll talk soon,” I tell him.
He cringes.
As I’m heading for the door, he croaks, “Do you work for her father?”
“No,” I say. “Just a patron of the arts.”
I leave him crying in the bathroom.
When I get back to the car, I grab wet-wipes from the glove box to clean the mess off my hands. It looks like a tomcat attacked my arms.
“Everything go alright?” Jonas asks.
“Of course. He weighs less than your last girlfriend.”
Jonas snorts. “I never had a girl I’d call a friend.”
No, he hasn’t. While the bond with my brothers is strong, they’re not exactly what I’d call “good people.” Especially Jonas.
I’m not a good person, either.
22
Nessa
Marcel brings me inside the house, all the way up to my room as ordered. Klara was just turning down the sheets, like they do in a fancy hotel. She doesn’t leave a chocolate on the pillow, but I’m sure she would if I asked her to.
She straightens up as I enter the room. Marcel is right behind me. When Klara sees him, she takes one quick breath and I see her brush down the hem of her apron, trying to smooth away any wrinkles.
“Hello, Klara,” Marcel says.
“Hello,” she replies, looking at the ground.
You’d think they’d never met before. When I know for a fact that they’ve worked here together for years.
“I’ll help you get ready for bed,” Klara says to me.
“Actually, would you mind making me tea, Klara? An herbal one? If you don’t mind—I just need to wind down a little.”
“Of course,” Klara says.
She leaves the room. Marcel says, “ ‘Night,” and hurries after her.
I don’t actually need tea. I just wanted to give them time to talk, if they wanted to. Mikolaj and Jonas are gone, so there’s no one to catch them. No one except me.
I know this is awful, and I should stay put exactly where I am. But the curiosity is killing me. I have to know what’s going on between those two. I’ve been making up all kinds of soap opera scenarios in my head.
I creep down the stairs, quiet as a mouse. Turns out I’m much more of a snoop than I realized. Or at least, I become one after loneliness and boredom have preyed on me for a month. I never used to lie or eavesdrop. Dear god, my captors must be rubbing off on me.
Well, if they’ve been a bad influence, then they’ll pay the price for it.
I stand just outside the kitchen, back against the ancient green wallpaper, ear almost at the edge of the wooden doorframe.
“It’s only dinner, Klara,” Marcel says in Polish. Marcel has a nice voice. He doesn’t talk much, so I hadn’t heard it very often. It has a pleasant, soothing tone. Which he’s trying to use to its greatest effect at the moment.
“I can make my own dinner,” Klara says coolly.
I can hear her filling the kettle and getting the cups out. It doesn’t take long for her to make tea—Marcel better hurry up.
“When’s the last time you ate a dinner you didn’t have to make yourself?” Marcel says.
“Less time than it’s been since you cooked anything,” Klara says. “I doubt you even know how to use a toaster.”
“Why don’t you teach me?” Marcel says.
I can’t resist peeking around the corner. Klara is setting the kettle on its stand, and Marcel has come up behind her so close that they’re almost touching down the length of their bodies, only an inch between them. They make a beautiful couple. A matching set—both tall, slim, and black-haired.
Marcel tries to put his hands on Klara’s hips. Klara whips around. I have to duck back around the corner, so I don’t see the slap, but I certainly hear it.
“Remember that I don’t work at one of your clubs!” Klara shouts. “I won’t be one of those girls who sucks your cock for coke and purses until you’re tired of me.”
“When have you ever seen me do that?” Marcel shouts back at her. “All I’ve done is ask for a chance, every day, for three fucking years.”
“Not quite three,” Klara replies.
“What?” Marcel says, bewildered.