“Did you say something?”
I shake my head.
Dina turns the key and locks the apartment instead of unlocking it.
“Forgot to lock it again,” she says, but I doubt she locks her door at all. When it comes to crimes like robberies, this neighborhood is safe. I bet kids can kick a soccer ball well into the night on the streets here, and parents don’t have to worry that someone will hurt or steal their child.
Dina lied about locking the door because she’s scared. She wants me to think she locks her apartment. Many people in this part of town don’t because everyone knows everyone. The expats who have infested the city of late don’t come here. Selnoa’s natives won’t rent to them.
People who grew up here have been called out for discrimination against the expat community. But the natives turn off the noise, saying labeling them as villains won’t work.Expats raise the cost of living and bring along the destructive habits they ran from when they moved here.
I follow her into a remodeled apartment, and the calming smell of lavender instantly makes me want to relax, giving me a false sense of safety. My injured ankle has a pulse of its own now that the adrenaline has worn off. Pain serves as a reminder that I’m far from safety, stuck in an apartment with a stranger in a city I never want to be trapped in.
I’m cut off from my family, and I can’t reestablish contact until I know it’s safe to do so. Right now, with the federal, international, and local law enforcement sitting in helicopters, combing the city for people involved in the shootout at my father’s mansion, my family and I must go silent.
I’ll lie low and pretend I’m one of the residents. That’s Dina’s job. To help me pretend.
Dina takes off her sandals and slides them into the wooden shoe closet attached to the wall right by the door and under a coat hanger. I keep my shoes on. Barefoot, she pads to the kitchen on the right. The entryway leads into a living space with a cream-colored couch, a small table, and a red wall.
The color choice for the wall makes me pause. The red wall matches her hair. I peek down the hallway and see a set of pillows against the headboard of a bed. That’s the bedroom. The door before it leads to the bathroom. I hear water that probably shouldn’t be leaking coming from that area.
Behind me in the kitchen, Dina is opening a drawer. I don’t turn around to see what she gets from it, but proceed to the screen door that leads to the terrace. Even with the (red again) umbrella open, blocking the view from above, I don’t step outside.
“One bedroom?” I ask, hoping conversation will deter her from attacking me. She might’ve grabbed a knife from the drawer.
“There’s another room that you can access from the terrace. My daughter stays there when she’s with me.”
“Does your husband have access to this apartment?”
“Sergei isn’t my husband anymore. It’s just paperwork that hasn’t caught up yet.” Dina is sneaking up on me while I pretend not to pay attention. I consider asking her to back off and calm down, but then decide she’d be better off if I allow her to attack me. In my line of work, I profile people quickly, and she’s the kind of girl who learns from her mistakes.
She needs a lesson, or she’ll keep trying to stab me, which would annoy me greatly, and I might return the favor. I would rather she lived. I’m not in the business of executing innocent women.
The cold barrel of a gun presses against the back of my head.
Correction. I’m not in the business of executing innocent women unless they try to murder me.
“Tsk. Tsk.” I’d hoped she wouldn’t use a gun. I’d hoped she would use a knife. A woman threatening me with a knife doesn’t turn me on. But a woman with a gun pointed at the back of my head, daring me to turn, does.
I lift my hands in the air.
“Put your hands on the screen and spread your legs,” she says.
This is not helping my growing erection. I do as she asks, but my ankle won’t oblige. I lift my foot slightly off the ground and let it dangle. It’s so painful that I might pass out. That helps with my erection.
“Give me my phone,” she says.
She just wants her phone? Really? I go to retrieve it from my pocket, but she barks, “Slowly!”
I wasn’t moving fast at all. I’ll show her fast, so she learns the difference. Just not right now. Now, she needs to think she’s incharge, or I fear she’ll lose it, and then I’ll have to tie her up or, worse, shoot her. If she doesn’t know my identity, she can live.
She knows nothing at the moment. Besides, she hit me with her car, and for all she knows, the accident injured me, not the fall from the guard tower.
I hold up her phone between my fingers. The phone is in my right hand, which is the same hand she’s gripping the gun with. In order for her to take the phone, she has to twist her body and reach out with her left hand. Or she could ask me to switch hands. Or to toss it. She won’t pick the latter. She’ll try to grab it.
I drop the phone.
Instinctively, Dina tries to catch it.
