She turns back to the window.
I keep my eyes on the road. We’re ten minutes from the estate. The city thins at the edges, the density of buildings giving way to the wider spacing of the north suburbs, the bare trees, the sky that hasn’t decided yet whether it’s going to snow.
“Thank you.” Her voice is quiet. “For today. For what you did.”
I don’t respond.
“It won’t happen again,” she adds. And then, lower, “I’ll make sure of it.”
“If he contacts you again,” I say, “you tell me immediately.”
She turns from the window and studies the side of my face.
“Okay.”
We pull through the side gate. The estate rises ahead of us, the facade lit with the low amber glow of dusk. Dmitri’s sedan peels off toward the garage. I pull up to the main entrance and stop.
I take out my phone and pull up the message thread with Dmitri and type with one hand while the engine idles.
Update on Webb’s goons.
The response comes in under ten seconds.
DMITRI
Handled. Disposed. Clean.
And Webb?
DMITRI
We let him go, as per your orders.
I want eyes on him. 24/7. Every move.
DMITRI
Confirmed.
I pocket the phone.
She’s watching me. She doesn’t ask. She’s learning, slowly, the cost of the questions that have obvious answers.
I get out, round the car, and open her door.
She steps out, and I walk her inside to her room.
I stand in the corridor for a moment longer than necessary.Then I turn and walk to my office, because I need a drink, and if I stay in that corridor for one more second, I’ll break the fucking door apart.
I haven’t move for a long time.
The vodka sits untouched. The lamp throws shadows across the desk. Outside, the estate is quiet. The guards are on rotation; the house is settling into its nighttime rhythms. Anya is asleep.
I think about the parking lot.
She said my name as if it hurt.
This has been the problem since the kitchen. Since the fucking Hello Kitty pajamas. It’s not that I want her. Wanting is simple. Just the body’s response to stimulus. Manageable. Temporary.
