I want to scream at the question. "Of course not."
"Then I don't care." I hear noise in the background. Music. Voices. He's at a bar or club. "Is that why you called? To tell me someone asked about me?"
"Gabe, he knew my name. He said you owe debts, and this isn't the first time that?—"
"Sera." He cuts me off. "Unless you're calling to tell me you have money, I don't want to hear it."
"What?" I slam my hands on the desk in front of me, sending the lamp rattling. "Gabe. Someone just came to my job!"
"And?"
"And they threatened me and you."
Gabe shakes his head. "These guys don't issue vague threats," he says. "If they wanted you dead, you would be."
"Jesus, Gabe."
"You made it clear you're not going to help me. So, I'm handling my own shit. Which means you're out of it."
"I'm not out of it if people are coming to my work?—"
"Do you have money?"
The question stops me cold.
"I... no. I'm barely making rent, you know that."
"Then you're useless to me."
The words hit like a slap.
"Useless?" My voice cracks. "Gabe, I've been worried sick. I've been calling you for weeks?—"
"And saying the same thing every time. 'I can't help you. I don't have money.' So, stop calling. Stop worrying. Just stay out of my way."
"Who is Artem?"
"Someone you don't want to know." He laughs, but there's no humor in it.
My blood runs cold.
"Gabe—"
"I gotta go. Don't call me unless you have cash."
He hangs up.
I stand in the back room of the bookshop, phone pressed to my ear, trying to process.
I look down at my hands. They're trembling.
What have I gotten myself into?
More importantly: what has Gabe gotten me into?
And why do I have the terrible feeling that Artem appearing in my bookshop was just the beginning of something I'm not prepared for?
I glance at the door. The street beyond.
