Then I sit on the closet floor, put my head between my legs in the emergency Mayday position, and breathe.
I wait until two in the morning to charge it. Raymond is dead asleep, snoring through the hangover from a “boys’ dinner” with two of his partners. I plug the burner into the outlet behind my vanity, where the cord disappears into the gap at the back, then take a seat cross-legged on the rug in the dark and watch the little screen blink to life.
There’s a single contact saved.M.S.
And one unread message.
M.S.
Hello, dikarka. If you’re reading this, you found it. Good girl.
My eyes prickle. I push the heel of my hand against them and curse Matvei under my breath for being able to do that to me from wherever he is.
I found it. Tucked under his keys, you crazy person. Are you trying to get me killed early?
He’d never look there. Men like him don’t look closely at things they think they already own.
I scowl at the screen.
That’s annoyingly insightful.
Every now and then, I have my moments.
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing out loud.
So now what?
The reply takes a minute. I picture him on the other end, in his apartment somewhere, in some dark room, hunched over his own matching little black phone.
Now, we work. There are four windows of opportunity in the next six weeks.
Lay it on me.
Tomorrow night, there’s a bar association dinner at the Pierre.
Two weeks out: partner retreat upstate. Three nights at a hunting lodge. Lots of trees. Nobody around.
Three weeks from now is the DeMaris wedding. She’s the daughter of a client. Plaza Hotel, black tie. You’ll be there.
And then the final opportunity. If all else fails, we do it the night before the Cayman flight.
My thumb hovers as I chew through the options.
So I assume we start from the beginning?
That’s usually how beginnings work, yes.
I flash a middle finger at my phone. He can’t see it, of course, but I like to think he feels the intention beamed his way.
Saturday it is then. What do you need from me?
Right now, nothing. That’s the part you have to trust me on.
That wasn’t the deal!
You wanted him gone. He’ll be gone. The rest of it, the part that’s ugly, that’s mine.
I type, then delete. Type, then delete. Type, then?—
