She nods, unfazed by my tone. Then she gravitates toward the abstract sculpture on the glass side table. Sharp angles of polished steel twist upward like an accident waiting to happen. Or a convenient excuse to explain away blood.
“And this?”
“A block of metal.” I remember how she touched it last night with fingers gentle enough to soothe a spooked animal. “It’s not mine. None of this is mine.”
She spins and stares. “Whose is it?”
“No idea.” I don’t know why I’m not just ignoring her. But I’m compelled to watch as she shuffles around the room, my mouth opening to answer before my mind can catch up.
She picks up a crystal paperweight from the mantel and raises it to the light.
I should shut this down. “Another meaningless object.”
She travels to the bookshelf. Runs her finger along spines of books that have probably never been opened. They’re just decorations to give the house a homey, lived-in appeal. “These?”
A coil of irritation winds through my chest. “What are you trying to accomplish?”
“Just doing the same thing as you.” Her voice is sing-song but matter-of-fact. “Looking for meaning. For connection. For the story behind the objects you surround yourself with.”
“There isn’t one.” My voice comes out harsher than I intend.
She lifts a framed photograph from the shelf. A generic landscape, probably chosen to match the color scheme. “No memories attached to any of it? No sentiment? No story?”
“None of this is mine, and none of it means anything.” I rise to my feet, unable to stay seated under her scrutiny. Why is this getting under my skin? “None of this matters.”
Jordan sets down the photograph and faces me fully. Her expression twists. Not with pity, exactly, but with a clear-eyed assessment that makes me want to avert my gaze.
I don’t.
She does that weird hand gesture she did when I asked about the key again, when she was wandering around the living room alone. “Right. All of this is nothing. Because you have nothing.”
The words land with precision, an acute force to my chest echoing in the sharp hollow. She’s not attacking or even judging. Just naming the vacancy I’ve built to avoid the weakness that would undoubtedly get me killed.
She draws nearer.
Nearer than she should if she had any sense of self preservation.
I tense, bracing for the blow, ready for a strike or retreat, but she does neither.
Instead, she reaches out and touches my hand. “What’s your name?”
Just her fingertips graze my skin, lighter than breath.
An unwelcome electric current snaps through me.
No one touches me. Not like this. Never with kind motives.
Or even neutral ones.
“Kirill.”
Why did I answer with my real name?
Not like she’ll ever have a chance to tell anyone.
She turns my hand palm up. To read? Another one of her fake powers. Rather than the lines, though, she traces the calluses, the scars, the history of violence layered into my flesh.
“You have these.”
