Same clothes. No sleep. No peace. The clock on the wall keeps moving.
I don’t.
Every now and then, one of the men passes through the hall quieter than usual, like this place knows something is broken and doesn’t want to say it out loud.
My jaw has been locked so long might as well be permanent. My phone sits on the table in front of me.
Silent now.
Which somehow feels worse. Because every time it rings, it’s bad. And every time it doesn’t, it’s worse.
I drag my arm off my face and stare at the ceiling.
Ayla crushed her phone under her own boot.
Ayla packed a bag. She bought a one-way ticket. She disappeared around a corner in a station and came out unconscious in the arms of two men. Every version of it keeps replaying.
None of them make sense.
The door opens.
I’m on my feet before I even register who it is, gun already in my hand.
Vaska stops in the doorway, unimpressed.
“Relax.”
I don’t lower the gun right away.
He looks at me, then at the couch, then at the untouched glass of whiskey on the table that’s been sitting there long enough to go warm.
“You need sleep,” he says.
“I need her.”
His expression doesn’t change, but something in it hardens anyway. For a second, neither of us says anything.
Then I rub a hand over my face and finally set the gun back down on the table, close enough to grab again in half a second.
“Anything on Kaya?”
Vaska steps further into the room. “Nothing yet.”
The words land badly. Like everything else tonight.
I lean forward, forearms braced on my knees, staring at the floor like I can force it to split open and give me something useful.
“Useless fucking night,” I mutter.
Vaska doesn’t answer.
Doesn’t tell me to calm down. Doesn’t feed me some bullshit about patience. Smart man.
I sit back again, every muscle in my body tight enough to snap.
“He took her once already,” I say.
Vaska’s gaze flicks to me.
