“This is what happens,” I say, and my voice is calm. “One finger for each day you stole from me. One week, seven fingers. For two weeks, we’ll have to settle for a few toes to make up the difference.”
The scream starts before the hammer falls. The anticipation is always louder than the impact, the body’s reaction to the certainty of pain, the animal brain overriding everything else.
I raise the hammer again.
The second finger.
The crack is the same, but the scream is different. It’s higher, thinner, breaking at the edges.
I set the hammer on the table and step back, rolling my sleeves down. My hands are steady. There’s blood, but not much. The hammer crushes rather than cuts, and the mess is contained.
“Alexei will finish up with you,” I say.
I pick up my jacket, put it on, and walk toward the door.
“And, Grigori?”
He’s cradling his hand against his chest, hunched forward, his face streaked with tears and snot. His eyes find mine.
“The BMW,” I say. “It doesn’t suit you. I’m keeping it.”
I’m not into cars the way my dad used to be, but the BMW seems nice. I walk out. The warehouse door closes behind me.
In the car, I press my hands flat on my thighs. They’re clean. No blood, no marks. The distance between intention andexecution was a hammer and two fingers. The silence did more work than the violence itself.
I feel better. Not good, but better. The voltage that’s been building since the kitchen has discharged partially, just enough to breathe.
Dmitri drives me back. I close my eyes and do not think about hazel eyes or cartoon pajamas.
Sunday is Elizabeth’s day off.
I intended to spend the morning with Anya, to sit with her and ask about the new tutor. I wanted to bring her breakfast, the way I used to on Sundays, before work consumed everything, before I looked up one morning and realized my daughter had stopped expecting me to be there.
Instead, I find myself in my office again, staring at the security feed.
Camera six: empty. Camera twelve: empty.
Where is she?
“You look distracted,” Mikhail says from the doorway. He has a habit of entering without knocking.
“I’m not distracted.”
“You asked me to arrange a formal introduction with Miss Calloway. Shall I still?—”
“That won’t be necessary. We’ve already met.”
Both eyebrows rise. “I wasn’t aware.”
“Friday night, in the kitchen.”
“The private kitchen?”
“She didn’t know it was private. No one told her.”
“Oh.” He processes this. I see him filing it. “And the introduction went... well?”
“She was making hot chocolate for Anya.”
