The structure’s a fortress of taupe stucco and peaked rooflines, a monument to excess with its circular driveway and tacky fountain.
He gestures to a tiny basement window, barely visible above a row of forlorn rose bushes in desperate need of pruning. “We go in there.”
The words don’t register at first.
Break into someone’s house? A week ago, the mere suggestion would have prompted me to call the cops.
Now, it sounds like salvation. A place to hide while I figure out what the heck is happening to my life.
A hysterical laugh bubbles up my throat once I recognize the property. “No way. This is Brenda Fucking Smith’s house.”
Kolya’s eyebrows rise slightly, the only change in his otherwise impassive expression. “You curse?”
“When it comes to Brenda, I do.” My lips twist in anger that I try to push aside. Now’s not the time or place.
“Who is she?” He remains on constant alert for threats as we chat about neighborhood drama.
“One of the school moms. A thirtysomething mean girl.” The answer tumbles out, fueled by pent-up frustration. “She complained to the principal that my glitter projects were ‘fostering a disposable mindset.’ She also insists on sending in peanut butter cookies for her son’s birthdays, never mind that his classmate’s severely allergic. Then she freaks out and insists we’re destroying her personal property when we refuse to distribute the treats.”
The absurdity of running for my life while simultaneously complaining about a pushy parent slams into me. Like any of my old life matters.
The person I was this morning—Miss Chloe, the kindergarten teacher with her craft projects and lesson plans—is nothing more than a ghost.
Bone-deep exhaustion pummels me like a freight train. “She’s just mean. Like, really mean.”
“If you don’t get along, no one would think to look for you here.” Kolya approaches the window with silent purpose.
Look for me.
He knows this is about me too. But how?
Maybe I’ve been tied to this darkness since that night on the island fifteen years ago.
Like a bruise that never healed, that shadow has haunted me for over half my life.
But how does Kolya fit in?
Under Kolya’s expert pressure, the window latch submits with a slow groan. He slides through the narrow opening first, his broad shoulders barely fitting through the gap. Then he turns, holding out his hands for me from the darkness below.
I stare at those calloused, capable, dangerous hands that have hurt people but have also pleasured and protected me.
I hesitate, teetering on the edge of a treacherous precipice, pondering a decision much bigger than just climbing through a window.
Kolya’s mouth twitches. “Brenda Fucking Smith is about to be an unwilling hostess.” His tone’s tinged with both encouragement and amusement, along with uncharacteristic warmth.
A laugh escapes me, small and broken but real. I place my hands in his.
His fingers close around mine as he pulls me down into the depths.
Chapter 19
Chloe
The dusty silence bends around us, thick with the smell of damp concrete and mildew.
I freeze, my eyes shooting up to the ceiling.
Voices murmur and distant laughter echoes like a broadcast from another planet. Brenda. Has to be. She’s got a cackle on her. And at least two, maybe three others.
