Something catches her attention over my shoulder, and the blush quickly fades to a pale white. “That’s her,” she breathes out so quietly that I almost didn’t hear it over the noise of the cafe.
“What?” I ask when her gaze returns to mine. She’s trying to keep the shock off her face, but she can’t hide it in the set of her eyebrows.
“The woman,” she whispers fervently. She reaches across the table and grasps my fingers resting against the surface. “The Russian woman with the missing stone. Anya.”
Slowly, I turn to look with her. She’s by the door, having just entered and dressed in regular clothes instead of the dress she had worn to the gala. She looks bathed and ready for the day in the city. The exhaustion in her gaze is unmistakable, however. I see it all the time, and I expect to see it tonight, too, when I film her.
Normally, at this point in time, I’d tell myself that this is no place for emotions. But this time? I can’t shove them down. I have to though because, if I don’t, we’re in deep shit.
There are dark circles under Anya’s eyes, and she’s currently biting her nails as she stands closely to a man I do not recognize. I don’t need to know the man to know who he is though. He’s checking out the goods he may or may not buy, getting her food while getting to know her so that he can fantasize about her later as he’s plowing into her corpse.
It’s not uncommon.
I turn back around as my heart hammers in my chest. I may not recognize him, but there’s a good chance he’d know Charlie at first glance. She’s a beauty to remember, and she’s popular enough with the dark inner parts of our world to have her face permanently etched into any of their minds.
“We need to leave,” I hurriedly grunt to her.
I move to pull my hand away and stand up, but she squeezes my finger to keep me where I am. “They’re being seated. Oh! Oh, she’s going to the bathroom.” She lets go of my hand, grabs her clutch from her lap, and pulls out apen. On top of her napkin, she scribbles numbers, and my eyes go wide.
“Don’t,” I hiss.
She glances up at me and hisses back, “I have to. If I can do anything to help her, I’m going to try.”
“You can’t give her your number. What if someone else finds it, Charlie?” Surely she knows how stupid this is. How easily it could get turned around and she’d be the one who’d need to be saved.
She shrugs a little as she stands. “It’s not mine. It’s my partner’s.”
And before I can stop her, she heads to the bathroom. All I can do is stare at her back, watching as she skates around the table where the man Anya came with is now seated, looking at the menu.
I curse under my breath and pull the collar of my shirt further away from my neck. Slapping cash on the table for our tab, I stand and move toward the door to wait for the woman who has a death wish, and position myself so I can fully watch this man’s eyes. If he lands a look on her longer than a few seconds . . .
There are no bounds to the lengths I will go to protect her. Another murder is nothing to me.
Chapter Thirty
Charlotte Mitchell
My pulse thunders in my neck as I make my way down the small hallway toward the women’s restroom. I may have made it past the man Anya was with undetected, but I still have to confront the woman herself, who didn’t seem to have any interest in my questions at the gala. She seemed consumed with her situation, and I can’t really blame her. I would be, too, even if I didn’t know the full extent. Making friends would be the last thing on her list, but I’m going to change that for her.
I have to.
There’s a drive in me to try to save her, even with Nix’s warnings to let it go for the sake of the bigger picture. But she’s here, and right now . . . she’s alone.
I’m going to give her Mile’s number and hope like hell she gets herself out of this. I don’t know if she has a phone, but she could steal one or sneak one orsomething. People can be resourceful, and I have every hope that she has enough common sense to be the same.
The door makes a whoosh sound as I push my way through it, and at the same time, one of the toilets flushes. I shimmy my way toward the wall and lean against it with the napkin in my hand. And once she opens the stall door, our eyes connect.
I give her a small smile. She pauses mid-stride when she recognizes me. It isn’t hard. I’m dressed in the same clothes as I was last night, and I’m told I have a memorable face anyway.
“You,” she says, her Russian accent thick. She seems to shake off my sudden appearance and heads toward the sink. Turning it on, she begins to wash her hands.
“Hi, Anya,” I whisper as cheerfully as I can because I know, if she doesn’t take my napkin and dial those numbers, this could be the last time I see her.
“What are you doing here?” she asks while looking at me in the mirror. Her voice is so soft and full of defeat that it nearly breaks my heart.
“I have something for you,” I murmur back to her.
When I hold out the napkin, she’s drying her hands and staring at it like it might bite her. “What is it?”
