Being with them worked for a bit, when the risks were small. But the stakes kept climbing and the demands grew heavier. I stayed anyway because it was still better than being home. I came and went when I wanted, and my parents didn’t care enough to notice.
Camille eventually did. Called me every name she could think of once she knew what I was doing for Barrett. It kept the lights on, though. Covered groceries too. And when Mom got diabetes, I paid for her insulin. Camille sure as hell wasn’t stepping up.
I probably should’ve let Mom die. But I didn’t want that kind of karma over my head, so I played good daughter right up until the night I shoved her into the pool and held her face there until Camille ripped me off of her.
Headlights flare in my mirror, and the road snaps me back into focus as the SUV stays right where it is, close enough to keep the fear in me alive. The light turns yellow and then red. My foot eases off the gas, heart pounding so hard it feels like it might give me away. The SUV rolls to a stop behind me without hesitation. Hands tighten on the wheel and the terror continues to suffocate me.
When the light turns green, I hit the gas, turning left, and the vehicle continues to tail me, a car length behind me now.
The streetlights blur at the edges as my thoughts scatter. It would be just like Eli to play games, to scare me before making a move.
My grip tightens on the wheel. If it is him, did Barrett send him to kill me? He was second-in-command, but Barrett was always the one calling the shots.
Another turn. Then another. Residential streets now—quieter, narrower, houses pressed close together like they’re listening. A stop sign appears, and my stomach drops when the SUV slows with me, its headlights washing over the back of my car, lighting up every scratch and dent like a target.
A gas station flashes by before a main road opens up ahead, and my instinct screams to take it and disappear into traffic.
But that’s where they’d expect me to go. Instead, a narrow side street appears at the last second, and I take it, heart slamming as tires hum over uneven pavement. The houses thin out. Warehouses replace porches. The streetlights space themselves farther apart, leaving long stretches of shadow between pools of light.
The SUV hesitates at the corner. For one awful second, it turns too.
Then it doesn’t.
The vehicle rolls past the street, headlights continuing straight onto the highway, the dark shape shrinking in the mirror until it disappears completely.
Relief crashes into me as I pick up speed, my hands refusing to loosen their grip, eyes scanning every side street, every alley mouth, every parked vehicle that could hide another set of headlights.
Minutes stretch. Then more. The road curves away from anything familiar, pulling me farther from the diner, farther from my sister’s place, farther from anywhere someone might think to look.
Eventually, a narrow alley appears between two buildings, dumpsters lining one side, brick walls rising close enough to block the sky. The car slips into the darkness and I cut the engine, silence rushing in so fast it leaves my ears ringing.
I’m too afraid to move at first, not sure if it’s safe to stay here overnight. But I don’t have another choice. I climb into the back, kick off my shoes, and pull the fleece blanket around myself, tucking it over my head. The phone stays beside me, close enough to call for help should something happen.
Kirill appears in my mind. Would I really be able to call him if I was ever in danger? I don’t know what he does or if he cares enough to help, but he’d be the only one I could think of.
My gaze stays open, fixed on the rear window, waiting for headlights to flood the alley, for a door to open, for a gun to point at my head.
But hours pass and nothing happens.
The fear never really leaves, but exhaustion pulls me under anyway, even as I fight to stay awake.
CHAPTER EIGHT
KIRILL
The monitors linethe wall of my office, feeds looping in silence, streets and corners and doorways stitched together into a map of a city. But my attention stays fixed on one screen.
On Sloane.
This footage is older, pulled from deep in my archives. From a time when she was still too young to understand what the world takes from girls like her.
I lean back, fingers steepled beneath my chin, and let myself remember the first time I saw her, right from this very same feed.
Moya malenkaya vorovka.My little thief.
The words settle low in my chest. Even at fourteen, she carried herself like someone who learned early how to survive, how to read rooms, how to decide whether to fight or disappear.
That instinct never left her. Last night proved it.
