Instead he searched my face—really searched it—as though looking for cracks, for tells, for proof that the terror he saw was an act.
“And standing here,” he said slowly, “this close...” He shook his head once, a small, almost disbelieving motion. “I can’t help but wonder how a woman with so much fear in her eyes becomes a killer.”
His gaze sharpened.
“Or if it’s all just pretense.”
He turned away from me then, walked to the Mercedes, and leaned back against the rear quarter panel. He folded his arms across his chest, posture closed, guarded—and watched.
Waiting.
Minutes stretched. The night pressed in around us, thick and silent except for the distant hum of traffic and the quiet tick of cooling metal from the van.
I used every second the way a drowning person uses air.
Slow breaths. Controlled inhales. Counting heartbeats. Willing the damaged cords in my throat to loosen, even a fraction. Praying for words—not many. Just enough.
Because I knew with bone-deep certainty that if I couldn’t speak soon—if I couldn’t tell him the truth before his doubt died completely—then no amount of innocence in my eyes would save me.
And Ruslan Baranov did not hesitate forever.
“Get in.” He finally spoke again, his voice stripped of all inflection—flat, precise, merciless.
The word echoed in the empty lot.
Something inside my chest cracked open.
He straightened slowly.
“If you run. If you call for help. If you make a single misstep...” His gaze locked onto mine, merciless. “You will regret it.”
He opened the door and waited.
“For the last time,” he said quietly, “step into the van. Now.”
Terror seized me whole—hot, blinding, absolute.
My pulse slammed so violently I tasted metal. Every instinct I had left screamed the same truth with ruthless clarity:
If I get into that van, I will never come out.
My eyes darted wildly around the parking lot. No one who would hear me if I disappeared into the night.
I looked back at him.
Really looked.
He hadn’t moved. Not a single step. He stood where he was, hands relaxed at his sides. There was no rush in him. No urgency.
I bolted.
Air tore through my lungs as I screamed with everything my ruined voice could give me—raw, broken sound ripping free despite the pain.
“P-please—” My voice cracked, useless.
“H-help... s-somebody—”
Air tore painfully through my throat as I forced the words out.
