“You think this is a game.”
“I think you brought me to a kitchen that looks like it was furnished by a serial killer and asked me questions you already know the answers to.”
Another flicker from the light. This time, he doesn’t look at it.
He’s watching me.
“You didn’t look at the knife,” he says.
“I did.”
“No. You acknowledged it.” His eyes narrow slightly. “You didn’t measure it. Didn’t track my hands. Didn’t calculate distance.”
I shrug.
“If you wanted to hit me, you wouldn’t have put it on the table first.”
That lands. His fingers tap once on the metal surface.
“And why’s that?”
“Because men who need theatrics don’t win wars.”
He exhales through his nose. A quiet, impressed sound.
“Interesting.”
He looks at the knife in the wall then back at me. Like he’s reassessing a calculation.
He stands, walks to the counter, pours himself a drink. The interrogation is over. The energy in the room changes entirely.
“You know what I was looking for?” he asks casually.
“An excuse?”
“A crack.”
I tilt my head. “And?”
He takes a sip.
“Didn’t find one.”
That isn’t praise, but it’s close. He sets the glass down.
“I’ve been watching you,” he says. “Since Maksim brought you to that meeting…he’s taking care of you.”
I don’t respond. Don’t react. Don’t even breathe differently.
“What I can’t figure out,” he continues, “is why you’re letting him.”
That catches me off guard. “What?”
“You don’t want safety. You don’t need protection.” Vaska tilts his head. “So what do you want from him?”
“I don’t want anything from him. He’s the one who won’t leave me alone.”
Vaska studies me for a long moment.
