It was a picture of a pregnancy test.
Not just any test. Mine.
The one I’d taken in my old apartment. The one I’d wrapped in paper towels and dropped into the trash under the sink before Maksim came to get me. The photo was crystal clear. High resolution. The word “pregnant” unmistakable. Though there were a million tests that could’ve looked like that, my trashcan and the crappy, cracked, and peeling vinyl-tiled floor of my bathroom were visible in the background.
Beneath the white stick, written on the photo in Sharpie, in the same neat handwriting as the envelope: Congratulations.
I couldn’t breathe. Bile hit the back of my throat.
“They were in my apartment,” I whispered. “Archer. They were in my apartment.”
Archer’s hand closed around my elbow, steadying me as my knees buckled and threatened to give out. He caught the photograph as it slipped from my cold fingertips. He glanced at it and took a deep breath that he let out in a rush. His voice was calm, but something lethal flickered behind his eyes. “When was the test taken?”
“Before I moved.” My throat burned. “Before Maksim’s apartment. Before you.”
Which meant they’d been watching me longer than I’d thought. Watching. Waiting. It was then I knew that all the times I had a feeling like someone was stalking me, they really were. It hadn’t been my overactive imagination.
My phone buzzed. A new message. Unknown number. I stared at the screen, dread pooling heavy as lead in my chest.
Unknown: You should be more careful what you throw away.
My vision tunneled. Archer took the phone from my hand, reading it once before swearing softly under his breath.
“They know my schedule,” I said numbly. “They know where I work. They know I’m pregnant.”
“Yes,” Archer said. “That’s what we were afraid of. Part of why Maksim wanted you to stick to the apartment is so they wouldn’t get tipped off that he had left the country. If they are watching you, they’ve been watching you for some time. They know he’s attentive to you. Suddenly, it’s me and not him that’s here. They want you afraid. Not dead. Not yet.”
“Yet,” I echoed faintly as ringing filled my ears.
He turned his head, scanning the bar, the windows, the street outside. He didn’t need to speak the words to tell me what was going through his mind. Every patron had become a potential threat. Every shadow deepened. Every sound sharpened.
“You’re leaving,” he insisted, his tone firm and unyielding.
“I can’t just walk out?—”
“You can,” he cut in. “And you will.”
I shook my head, tears burning. “Maksim said to keep you in arm’s reach. He said I’d be safe as long as I was with you.”
Archer met my eyes. “Maksim did not say to ignore proof that someone has been inside your home. I can only keep you so safe if you insist on placing yourself out in the open.”
That broke something within me and made me swallow my stubborn pride. This wasn’t just about me. I pressed my hand to my stomach, fighting the panic crashing through me. “They know the baby is Maksim’s.”
Archer’s expression hardened completely as he firmly set the image on the bar top. “Yes, they do. Which means they have crossed a line they shouldn’t have. For this, they will not survive.”
He pulled out his phone and dialed without hesitation. As the phone rang, he met my gaze and said, “Gather your things. Tell your coworker you are sick.”
Reluctantly, I nodded.
“Maksim,” he said the moment the line connected. “Things have escalated. She received a photograph at her place of work. Yes. The test. From inside her apartment.”
I couldn’t hear Maksim’s response, but Archer went still, listening.
“Yes. I agree. I already planned to relocate her immediately.”
My chest hitched. “Relocate?”
Archer covered the phone briefly. “Do what I said. We’re leaving. Now.”
