And Roman’s still waiting for those diamonds.
The thought raises tiny hairs on the back of my neck.
We exit the SUV and quietly ease the doors shut.
Kolya leads the way through a neighbor’s yard, skirting the edge of their property to avoid prying eyes on the street.
I follow closely, feeling like an intruder in my own community.
My feet, now in a pair of sneakers Vanya produced from his seemingly endless supply of emergency items, tread silently across the familiar ground.
The back of my house comes into view. My small yard with its oak trees, the peeling paint on the door frame, the window above the sink where I’ve spent countless mornings bird-watching while drinking coffee.
My cottage.
The yellow tape stretches here, too, a stark reminder that this place isn’t the same home I’ve lived in for years.
It’s evidence. A crime scene. A trap.
Despite his injuries, Kolya crouches by the back door with fluid movements. Jittery, I keep vigil, scanning the neighboring yards and windows. He works on the lock with a thin piece of metal that he produced from somewhere in his pockets.
In seconds, the door gives way with a soft click.
“That was fast!” I clap my hand over my mouth.Way too loud.
He nearly laughs while shaking his head. “Not my first break-in.”
I can attest to that.
When we slip through the door, the scents of my cottage hit me with unexpected force. Cinnamon from the plug-in air fresheners, laundry detergent, the faint mustiness of the old wooden floors.
Then the foreign tang of strangers disrupts the familiar air.
The kitchen is a disaster.
Drawers pulled out and upended, their contents scattered across countertops and floor. The refrigerator door stands open, food spoiling on the shelves. Cabinet doors hang at odd angles, some ripped completely from their hinges.
This was no careful inspection. This was violence, rage, and frustration.
The perpetrators didn’t find what they were searching for, and they made sure I’d know they were here.
“Falcones.” Kolya’s rigid with anger. “No finesse.”
My carefully constructed safety gone, tossed like a salad. Torn from beneath me faster than quicksand.
We move through the kitchen into the living room as tears prick my eyes.
The destruction is even worse here.
Colorful throws slashed. Stuffing erupting from the cushions of my comfy sofa. Books ripped from shelves, with their pages torn out and crumpled and their spines cracked. Picture frames smashed, the photos inside trampled underfoot.
My life, dissected and discarded by strangers hunting for twenty million in diamonds.
“Those jerks better not have damaged any of my library books!”
The globe bar stands in the corner of the room. The world map, with its aged colors and detailed cartography, gleams in the dim light filtering through the closed blinds. Untouched amid the destruction of my home.
Beautiful.
