She's quiet for a moment, and I can see her deciding if she’s going to trust me. Or, maybe, what’s worthy of the test she’s putting me through. "There's a necklace. It was my grandmother's. Silver, with a small cameo pendant. I kept it in my jewelry box on the dresser."
"Okay."
“And if you find a black cashmere cardigan in the closet…” she trails off. "Could you bring that too?"
"I'll bring whatever I can find."
"Thank you." She smiles at me, and for a brief moment, it feels like the sun has come out. It almost looks like a real smile.
Then she turns back to her food, and the moment is gone.
I go that afternoon, while she's napping. It’s easy enough to talk my way past the doorman and then go up and pick the lock of her apartment. Inside, everything is exactly as she left it.
The apartment is large, open concept, and bright, with lots of big windows that let in afternoon sun. There's a couch covered in throw pillows, a bookshelf crammed with novels and photography books, and plants on the windowsill in a clearly rarely-used kitchen.
I move through the space slowly, taking it all in. There are photos on the walls—landscapes, mostly, but some portraits too. They're good, and I linger for a moment, impressed by her talent.
But it’s the bedroom that makes my chest ache. It’s the picture of someone who thought they were coming back home and never did. Her bed is made, but there are clothes tossed over a chair, a book on the nightstand with a bookmark in it, pairs of shoes kicked off by the closet. It’s as if the apartment is frozen in time… and clearly no one has come to clean it. I wonder why her father hasn’t bothered to rent it out or sell it, but I don’t linger on the thought for too long. I don’t think, in the grand scheme of things, that it’s all that important.
What is, is that I get her things and get out, before anyone who might be watching sees me.
The jewelry box is on the dresser. It's wooden, carved with flowers, and inside is a collection of various pieces, some much more expensive-looking than others. I find the necklace she described—silver chain, a small cameo pendant with anengraved flower on the back. I pocket it carefully, then go to the closet and look through designer dresses and coats until I find the black cashmere cardigan she asked for.
Then I turn around, and I see her dresser, near the end of the bed.
I shouldn't. I know I shouldn't. But I open the top drawer anyway.
What I find there is exactly what I thought—hoped?—I would. It’s filled with lingerie, lace and silk in pastel colors, all of it tasteful but so sensual that my heart starts to race just looking at it. I run my fingers over a pale blue bra, and my cock stirs. I imagine her wearing it. Imagine taking it off her.
I'm hard again, and I'm disgusted with myself even as I reach for a pair of matching lace panties. They're soft in my hand, delicate, and I bring them to my face before I can stop myself. They don't smell like her anymore, but I imagine they do anyway.
I slip them into my pocket before I can stop myself. I’m not quite so far gone that I’m going to jerk off here in her apartment, and I’m not foolish enough to think that I have that much time to waste. But my cock aches imagining myself back in my own bed, with her across the apartment while I stroke myself with her panties wrapped around my cock, thrusting into them as I soak the silk with my cum.
I slip out of her bedroom and close the door. I’m halfway to the front door and on my way to leave when I see something else that stops me.
Her camera equipment is sitting near a bookshelf. It looks like a camera bag, a backpack-type case that maybe contains lights, and another duffel bag. I know nothing about any of it, but the bags look expensive.
I remember her out walking, taking pictures with a disposable camera because she didn’t have anything else. Iremember her telling me yesterday to prove what I’ve said to her, to show it to her instead of just speaking the words.
I turn on my heel and go back to her bedroom, looking around until I find another duffel bag. I go through her closet and dresser, packing as much of her clothing that looks comfortable enough to wear around day-to-day as I can, and sling the bag over my shoulder. Then I go back into the living room, gather up the camera equipment bags until I feel like a fucking pack mule, and head out of the apartment.
Going past the doorman again, loaded down like this, would be an exercise in just how persuasive I can be, so instead, I go down the back service stairwell and out the back of the apartment building. I’m ten feet from the door when I hear the crunch of feet on gravel, and I turn to see a man dressed in all black moving out of the shadows toward me, his hand going toward the inside of his jacket.
Before he can so much as pull his weapon, I drop the duffel, slide my own gun free, and put a bullet between his eyes.
He drops like a stone. I should go over and examine the body, but I feel sure that he’s someone Svetlana’s father sent. And I need to get out of here. Someone will have heard the shot and called the cops.
I walk quickly toward the alley where I parked my car, load up everything, and drive back to my own apartment, my adrenaline running high. Svetlana is in her room when I get back, and I walk in, pulling the necklace free from my pocket as I drop the duffel of clothes on the floor.
Her eyes go wide. “You found it,” she breathes, and then she takes in the rest of everything in my hands.
“And… a lot more.”
“I brought you clothes. Stuff I thought you might be comfortable in around the apartment. And…” I motion to the camera equipment. “I know you can’t go outside right now, sothere’s not a lot to take pictures of, but I thought you might want this.”
Her mouth falls open. "You brought my cameras?"
I nod. "Yeah."
