“Social services?”
“No.”
“Then, who the fuck are you?”
It seems she won’t give us anything, not without something from one of us. A guarantee or a bribe.
“We just have questions. It’s as simple as that. We can pay.”
Georgiy pulls an envelope out and hands it to her. She peers inside, her tongue snaking out and wetting her chapped lips as she counts what’s inside.
“Fine. I’ll answer some questions, but don’t expect nothin’ when you come inside. The brats living here are useless.”
She steps back, and the door swings open, a scent filling the air. Dirt and damp, musty, as if the windows are never opened. As if the people inside here were left to rot.
My mind swirls, trying to place the things I’m seeing, but I have nothing. Not a single recognition, not even a blip. I must not have been here long.
I step inside, taking in the grungy, dark walls and furniture, the crooked pictures hanging on the wall, the dead plants on the windowsill. But still nothing.
She leads us further inside, and we follow, a figure in the shadows scurrying away as we pass. A child, I think. Definitely not an animal.
“You can take a seat if you want,” she says, gesturing to a couch that sits lopsided on the floor. It’s stained and torn. There’s not a chance Georgiy would ever touch it.
“We’ll stand,” Georgiy replies, and I nod, stepping near him. My eyes swivel around the space—the ratty curtains, the discarded shoes, a cat hissing at us from the top of a bookshelf. This place is dreary.
And I should know.
I live in a dirt temple, a place filled with rocks and grime. With bones.
And I’d rather be there than here.
“Do you have children here now?” Georgiy asks when he hears a door slam above us.
“Yep, sure do. They’re shy, though, and like to hide. I can assure you they’re well taken care of.”
My chest constricts at that, not trusting a word she says.
“Can we meet them?” I blurt, and Sue scoffs.
“That’s not why you’re here, so fuck no. What I do with them is none of your business.”
That makes my shoulders bunch, my hands fisting at my side. I touch the hammer in the back of my jeans and stroke it to remind myself I can kill her at any time. Or at least incapacitate her if I don’t like what she says.
And I think that may actually happen if she keeps opening her mouth. I don’t like the way she speaks.
I want to take out her throat while she is still alive.
Force her to never utter another word again.
“You’ll speak to him respectfully,” Georgiy says, his voice low.
“Or what?” she asks mockingly.
“You don’t want to know.”
She stares at him and takes a step back, realizing she invited danger into her house. That she’s made a grave mistake. But we’re not leaving without answers.
We always get what we want in the end.
