Then:
Boris : What the hell do “trauma recovery clothes” look like? All I see are work blouses and pajama pants with holes.
She’ll be back. She has to be. Which means I don’t need to tell Boris she ran off like a spooked deer. Better to let him think this is still going according to plan.
I lean back against the counter, fork suspended halfway to my mouth. Boris breaking into Mary’s apartment, trying to figure out what constitutes appropriate kidnapping attire. The absurdity isn’t lost on me.
Just grab basics.
I text back.
And don’t judge her decorating skills.
Boris: Too late. She has a plant collection that looks like a fucking nature preserve. And get this—she’s got a photo of her and some old lady making cookies. Taped to the bathroom mirror. Who does that?
Someone who has people worth loving.
I don’t text that back.
Instead, I take another bite of lasagna and turn on the TV. Local news is starting, and I want to see how well our cleanup crew performed.
The anchor’s voice fills the apartment, all professional concern and manufactured gravity.
“—four bodies discovered this morning at a Twain Avenue laundromat. Police are calling it a robbery gone wrong, though the motive remains unclear.”
Four bodies. Dave and the three gunmen. No mention of survivors.
Perfect.
“Among the deceased is David Thornton, forty-two, regional manager at Brightside National Bank. Thornton leaves behind two children and a wife. Police say the three other victims have not yet been identified, but sources suggest they may be connected to organized crime.”
They flash Dave’s photo on screen. Corporate headshot, fake smile, the same one from the Brightside National website. He looks exactly like what he was: a weak man who made bad choices.
My phone buzzes again. Boris.
Neighbor lady keeps asking about Mary. Says she hasn’t seen her since yesterday. Had to tell her Mary’s visiting family. Woman looks like she could bench press a Buick. Note to self: avoid confrontation with building security.
I can picture it. Boris, all six-foot-nothing of him, trying to charm some linebacker grandmother while sneaking around with Mary’s underwear.
The news drones on about investigation status and public safety, but I’m not really listening anymore. Because Dima’s calling.
“Where is she?” I answer.
“Bus stop on Maryland. Been there twenty minutes. Keeps checking over her shoulder.”
“Mistakes?”
“She’s exposed. No disguise, same clothes. Security cameras are picking her up everywhere.”
Amateur hour.
“She’s scared,” Dima adds, which for him is practically a psychological profile.
“Keep watching.”
“Copy. Anton?”
“Yeah.”
