Somehow, I don’t think attempting to strangle a man like Alexei with Egyptian cotton would be a wise move.
I catch my reflection in the mirror and barely recognize myself. My hair is a tangled mess, my makeup smeared down my cheeks from countless tears. The maid costume, which was degrading at the bar, feels obscene in this context. I tug the outfit down as far as possible and smooth my hands over the wrinkles. A pointless gesture, though one that gives me something to do with my trembling hands.
Deep breaths. In through the nose, out through the mouth.
Staying calm is critical.
Despite the bathroom’s size, I can’t hide out in here forever. And I’m afraid if I stay too long, Alexei will come and drag me out. Straightening my spine, I scrape my resolve off the floor, open the door, and return to the main space.
The blinds are closed now, cutting off the spectacular view and transforming the vast room into a lamplit cave. Shielding the view, or shielding us? Either way, the isolation seems more complete, more deliberate.
Alexei’s in the kitchen area, his back to me as he works at the counter. Everything in the kitchen is high-end. Viking range, Sub-Zero refrigerator, marble countertops. The kind of stuff I’d drool over in magazines during my lunch breaks. The appliances are so incongruous with the man using them that I battle a strange urge to laugh. What does a killer cook for dinner? Who does he entertain in this massive empty space?
Does he host a murderer’s book club? If so, I wonder if he and his friends can always guess who-did-it.
The distance between us grants me a minute to truly absorb my surroundings. With the way every noise echoes, I know thisplace is bigger than I can currently see. On the side opposite the windows, there’s a wall of gray, or maybe a cluster of thick shadows. Considering my situation, I don’t want to know.
The elevator door remains open, implying that I would need his thumbprint in order to go to another floor. No obvious escape route.
Which leaves dealing with Alexei.
He knows I witnessed him shooting Benny, and his friends told him to get rid of me. He should have killed me by now.
So why hasn’t he?
What kind of answers does he want from me?
Clasping my hands together in front of me, I plaster on my warmest smile. “Your home is lovely. Really. But I should be going. It’s getting late. And if I don’t water my geraniums, they get cranky.”
He ignores me and treks back from the kitchen with a plate of food, two pain relief tablets, and a huge glass of water. I can’t figure out what’s on the plate from here, but a rich, tomato-y aroma reaches my nose.
My traitorous stomach growls, reminding me I haven’t eaten in hours. “Oh, don’t listen to her. She’s just a greedy bitch. I’m not really hungry.”
He sets the food on a low coffee table in front of a huge, poufy, smoke gray sectional. The type of couch that, under different circumstances, I’d sink into and never want to leave. The kind people cuddle on during movie nights or make love on during rainy afternoons.
Not the furniture I’d expect from a man who executes people in alleys.
He sits in a chair on the far side of the table. No, not a table. A slab of reclaimed timber set in dark black steel. A piece that probably costs more than three months of my rent.
I hover at the edge of the couch, uncertain. Is this a trap? Some kind of sick game before he kills me?
Joking isn’t working, so I switch to begging. What have I got to lose?
I recall the name his friends called him and hope using it might establish some kind of connection. A humanizing link between us. “Please let me go, Alexei.”
His eyes ice over, his body tensing like a predator about to strike.
My pulse gallops, and I inch back a step. Okay. No using his name as connection. Got it.
“Drink.” He gestures to the water and aspirin. His flat voice is so devoid of emotion that it cuts through my rambling like a knife. “You can eat once you answer my questions.”
I start to backpedal, a revised plan forming on the fly. Simple pleading with no attempt at false connection.
“Please. I won’t say anything. Benny was trying to kill you. I saw it. Then he tried to kill me. You saved me. What you did was self-defense and…you protected me. If anyone asks, we can say Benny attacked us both and we had to seek medical attention immediately. It makes total sense. Honestly, if you think about it, you’re practically a hero. Please. I swear. I?—”
He waves the gun that suddenly appears in his hand at the water, then at me. “If you can’t follow simple commands, there’s no point in keeping you alive.”
I halt mid-step, my eyes locked on the barrel. The one that put a bullet through Benny’s skull and could end my life with a simple squeeze of his finger.
