I turn my head slowly, meeting his eyes for the first time since entering the room. “Family is often closest to the knife,” I say mildly.
Igor stiffens.
Alexandr raises a hand, cutting off any further exchange. His gaze shifts back to me, thoughtful now. Calculating.
“I would appreciate your help,” he says. “Especially if you believe whoever killed these men sees her as a target.”
Relief flickers through me, sharp and unexpected. I keep it off my face.
“I’ll take her to her performance tonight,” I say. “And bring her home afterward.”
Alexandr nods once. “See that you do.”
I stand and turn for the door, acutely aware of Igor’s stare burning into my back. As I step into the hallway, I notice Dominic is no longer waiting. Checking my phone, I see that he’s left two messages.
In the first one, he tells me that he left to follow Skylar. He heard her on the phone as she was leaving the house. She made arrangements to meet with someone, and it sounded urgent. The second message was the location where Dominic followed her. I immediately head to the area.
The building looks dead long before I step inside it.
Its windows are either boarded up or shattered, black mouths gaping into rooms that once held families, arguments, and laughter. Now it’s just concrete bones and rot. The kind of place people stop seeing after a while, which makes it perfect for secrets.
I park two blocks away and walk the rest, collar turned up, senses tight. The front door hangs crooked on one hinge. Inside, the air smells like mildew, rust, and something faintly chemical. Old wiring, maybe.
My phone vibrates once.
Dominic: Second floor. East side. Third door on the left. Don’t step on the loose stair—it screams.
Of course it does.
I climb slowly, every movement deliberate. The stair groans anyway, a long-suffering sound that echoes through the hollow shell of the building. No voices answer it. Good.
The second-floor hallway is narrow, wallpaper peeling in long strips like dead skin. Dominic waits inside what used to be a bedroom, the door barely cracked. He pulls it open just enough for me to slip in, then shuts it again without a sound.
“You’re just in time,” he murmurs.
“In time for what?” I ask.
A corner of his mouth lifts, then he gestures toward the far wall. An antique air vent is set into it, ornate ironwork instead of modern slats. Decorative. Out of place. Someone long ago thought even airflow should be beautiful.
Dominic has already removed the inner panel. The vent opens into the adjacent apartment—another bedroom, judging by the warped hardwood and the faded outline where a bed once sat.
We’re both tall men. The vent is set high enough that when we lean in, shoulders brushing, we can see clearly through the patterned iron without being seen ourselves.
Skylar is alone in the room.
She paces, running a hand through her hair, agitation sharp in every step. She checks her phone twice, then glances at the door. The look on her face is not fear.
It’s anticipation.
I feel something cold settle behind my ribs.
Two men arrive a few minutes later. Suits, but not tailored. Government issue. Practical shoes. No visible weapons, but the way they move tells me they’re armed anyway.
Skylar’s posture changes instantly. Her shoulders square. Her mouth curves into a professional smile.
“Two operatives?” she asks, extending her hand. “Langley must want this information.”
“Dealing with the Bratva always gains their undivided attention. You should know this by now. I’m Glenn, this is my associate, Crow.”
