I twist around, squirming free again as I put distance between us, his hand clasping my wrist before I can get too far. I see the bronze sculpture on the edge of the desk, the piece I was cataloging earlier. It's to my right, heavy and solid and within reach.
He's pulling me toward him, spitting out something in Russian that sounds like a threat or a curse. The air is thick with sweat and fear. I see blood on his face from where I clawed him, and fury in his eyes. He’s going to hurt me before he takes me to wherever I’m supposed to go… or maybe he’s just going to kill me here.
I lurch toward the sculpture, feeling something wrench in my wrist, and grab desperately for it.
It's heavier than I remembered, the weight of it solid and real in my hand. He sees what I'm doing, his eyes widening, and he tries to grab my other wrist. But I'm already swinging.
The bronze connects with his skull with a sound I'll never forget: a wet, sickening crack that seems impossibly loud in the small room. Nausea roils through me as he staggers, bloodstreaming from one side of his head, the white of his left eyeball going red. His grip loosens and his eyes are unfocused, confused.
I hit him again.
This time he goes down, his knees buckling and his body crumpling to the floor. Blood is spreading across the concrete, dark and viscous, pooling beneath his head. I swing harder, again, watching his skull cave in as I grip the sculpture with sweaty hands, my arms shaking and my breath coming in ragged gasps. I can't move. Can't think. Can't do anything except stare at what I've just done.
He's not moving. His eyes are open but unseeing, staring at nothing. The blood keeps spreading, a dark halo around his head. I can see something glossy and grey through the cracked bone of his skull.
I killed him.
The thought comes slowly, like my brain is filled with a thick, hazy fog.I just killed someone.
The sculpture slips from my hands, clattering to the floor with a sound that makes me flinch. I look down at myself and see blood on my hands, on my clothes, spattered across my arms.
His blood.
I start to shake. My whole body trembling so violently I can barely stand. My legs feel like they might give out at any moment.
I should call someone. The police. An ambulance. Someone.
But he's dead. I can see that he's dead. There's so much blood, and he's not breathing, and his eyes are just staring at nothing.
I killed him.
Why was he here? Who was he? What did he mean about Sorokov, about me being a target? Who the fuck is Sergei?
My mind is racing but can't seem to land on any one coherent thought for long. I'm in shock, I realize distantly. This is what shock feels like.
I need to move. Need to do something. But I can't make my body obey.
I start to back away from the body, my eyes locked on it, unable to look away from the dead man in the middle of my gallery's back room. The blood is still spreading. It's reached the leg of the work table now, a dark tide that seems to move in slow motion.
The sound of the front door opening is the thing that drives me into action again. I spin around, my heart racing, and terror floods through me. He has backup. Of course he has backup…
I grab for the sculpture, my fingers struggling to grip it through the film of blood and sweat on the bronze. It feels so much heavier than it did a moment ago, so much harder to hold all on my own…
A figure appears in the doorway.
I.S.
Sorokov.
16
ILYA
The surveillance feed from the gallery is open on my laptop, the only thing I’m interested in watching as I sit on my couch and sip vodka, waiting for her to leave and return home. I've been watching her constantly since our confrontation four nights ago, unable to stop myself even though I know I should give her space to process, to accept what's happening between us.
She's been staying late at the gallery every night, avoiding her apartment, throwing herself into work. I understand the impulse—she's trying to maintain control over something, anything, when her entire world has been turned upside down.
Tonight she's in the back room, cataloging pieces. I watch her photograph a bronze sculpture, focusing intently on it. Even through the grainy feed, I can see the exhaustion in the way she holds herself, the tension in her shoulders.
