Stuffing exploding from torn cushions. Emptied drawers. Well-worn, inexpensive clothing and an absurd number of socks blanketing the floor. Glass glittering from shattered frames.
This wasn’t random.
Whoever created this mess was either searching for a specific object or sending a message.
I venture deeper into the apartment, navigating around the wreckage. The tiny studio is barely large enough for the futon, small table, and kitchenette. The bathroom door hangs open,revealing more chaos inside. Even her shower curtain is ripped down.
My gaze slides to the far corner, where what’s left of a small workspace sits. Someone flipped the table, and colorful shards of ceramic and tile litter the floor. Unfamiliar tools lie scattered among the debris.
“Didn’t peg you for an artist.”
She startles, as if surprised I’d notice such a detail amid the destruction. Her knuckles go white around the photo in her hand. “I’m not. Just a hobby.”
Another lie. Just like last night. This little cocktail waitress is involved in more than she’s willing to admit.
I circle the perimeter of the tiny place, soaking in the details that tell her story more honestly than her words.
Cheap—and now destroyed—assemble-it-yourself furniture. A pile of textbooks on nursing that probably belong to her sister. A lack of personal photos, aside from the one she’s clutching and the few shattered frames on the floor. The absence of anything expensive or unnecessary. No TV. Few decorative knickknacks.
Just the essentials and her art supplies.
A flash of orange in my periphery, near the bathroom doorway, snags my attention. I instinctively reach for my gun before freezing.
A fluffy cat slinks out from underneath the bed, eyeing me warily before darting across the room to wind around Aurora’s ankles.
“Pixie!” Relief floods her voice as she scoops up the tabby, cradling the creature against her chest like a shield. “I thought they’d hurt you.” She clutches the cat tighter, its orange fur stark against the maid costume. The purring feline doesn’t seem to mind as it rubs its head under her chin.
Silence stretches between us as I soak in the scene. Aurora stares back, head lifting in defiance even as her fingers tremble against the cat’s fur. This woman fascinates me. Terrified but still fighting. Still lying to my face when she’s well aware of what I could do to her.
Is she protecting someone? Hiding information? Both?
I should push. Demand the truth. Intimidate her until she breaks and confesses everything. That’s what Roman would expect. What the old Alexei would have done without hesitation. What I still do to anyone other than her.
But I don’t want her broken. Not like this. Not devastated by the ruins of the life she clearly worked so hard to build. She’s already hanging by a thread. If I push too much, I may never get the full truth.
So instead, I nod, temporarily accepting the lie. “Some robbery.”
Relief flashes across her face, replaced by wariness. She has to know I don’t believe her. Her eyes narrow as if she’s trying to read my intentions.
Good luck with that,lyubimaya.
I stride toward the cheap particleboard bookshelf, which is toppled onto the floor and surrounded by a scattered collection of worn books.
The titles reveal more of Aurora than she probably realizes. Self-help books on dealing with anxiety and grief. A thick paperback about the marvels of positive thinking. A battered copy ofThe Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Upthat clearly didn’t take.
She’s a living, breathing contradiction.
Messy but with carefully organized books. Struggling financially but spending money on art supplies. Afraid of me but still defiant.
My hand settles on a massive volume. Unlike the other books, this one, a large hardcover coffee table book with a glossy jacket showing ancient marble statues and temple columns, looks expensive.The Glory of Rome and Greece: Art, Architecture, and Warriors Through the Ages.
I pull the volume out, the heft substantial in my hands. Given the steep price stamped on the dust jacket, the book seems like an odd impulse buy for a cocktail waitress on a budget. A gift, perhaps, or a scrupulously saved-for indulgence.
“No!” She darts forward with her cat still clutched to her chest and snatches the book from my hands with surprising force. “Don’t touch that.”
Her overreaction heightens my curiosity. I study her face as she juggles the awkward weight of both cat and giant tome. The feline, clearly unhappy with this new arrangement, squirms against her grip.
I nod toward the book. “Something special about centurions?”
