I drain the vodka in one swallow and stub out the cigarette on the wooden planks of the stage. Then I fold the photograph and tuck it into my pocket.
“I’ll be in touch.”
Aleksei’s smile spreads. “I knew you’d see reason,bratishka.”
I turn and walk toward the exit. Behind me, I hear my brother pouring himself another drink and the rasp of his lighter as he sparks up another cigarette.
I don’t look back.
55
ELIANA
weep·ing: /'wepiNG/: verb
1: the separation of water from a gel or emulsion.
2: the tears that pour when it all comes tumbling down.
I step outside my building at 6:58, clutch in hand, and wait.
And wait.
Andwait.
Seven o’clock comes and goes. The street remains empty except for a few passing cars, their headlights cutting through the gathering dusk and then vanishing into the gloom again.
I pull out my phone and check for messages. Nothing.
I try calling Bastian. After a dozen or more rings, his recorded voice asks me to leave a message. I don’t. Instead, I hang up and try again. Same result, though.
I send a text.
I’m outside. Everything okay?
The message shows as delivered but not read.
Above me, clouds are rolling in, dark and heavy with the promise of rain. The temperature has dropped at least a dozen degrees since this afternoon, and I’m starting to shiver in my dress.
7:15. I call again. Voicemail.
Another text:
Bastian?
Still nothing.
A cold drop of water hits my bare shoulder. Then another. I look up at the sky as the first fat raindrops begin to fall, and I wonder where the hell Bastian Hale could possibly be.
My thumb hovers over his contact, but I don’t call again. Three times feels desperate enough.
Instead, I stand there like an idiot in my expensive dress and my borrowed makeup, watching the street for a Range Rover that isn’t coming. Maybe he got held up at the office. Maybe there’s traffic. Maybe his phone died.
Or maybe?—
No. I’m not going there.
But my brain goes there anyway, because that’s what brains do best. That’s what my brain does best, at least.
