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By the time I get home, I’m doing much better. I’m not fuming for no reason. When my mom gushes and gushes that I’m back, and complains that I should never leave for so long without word again, I don’t get annoyed or snappy.
I’ve let it go.
In my life, I’ve had plenty of experiences to prepare me for Mirdza, Kristiana, and their two boyfriends lying. It’s not like I really even know the guys. At the end of the day, people will always lie when they feel like it will help them get what they want. It’s just what humans do.
No biggie.
After I get things settled, I decide not to put off finding Nojus. I have the money, so I have nothing to worry about. I mean, twelve of his men died. I’m a little nervous, but I didn’t kill them, and he’ll surely know that. I’m many things, but a killer isn’t one of them, and I wouldn’t even know where to begin with burning a person to cinders.
It takes me forever at the bank—it’s complicated when you’ve done two transfers in two days—but finally I have the cash, and I brace myself to face what will surely be a very angry Lithuanian. I stand outside the door to his place for several minutes.
The paint’s peeling. There’s a line of ants tracking from the corner of the door to the spigot for the hose on the porch. There are loose boards on the porch, and there’s a cracked windowpane I don’t recall seeing before. Spending time at Aleksandr’s mansion didn’t improve my opinion of Nojus’s house.
For someone who makes a bloody fortune, pun intended, exploiting others, why does he live in such a run-down pile? I suppose when you don’t put any effort into maintaining what you have, it doesn’t take long before it looks like this. I almost turn around and head back home. I haven’t heard anything from the inside of the house, so maybe this is a bad time. It’s not stupidly early, but still, he might be asleep. I could come back later today or tomorrow.
But this will just keep hanging over my head, and that’ll be horrible in its own way. I rap on the door, and then I force my hand to grab the loose handle and turn. “Nojus?”
Only, no one’s here.
I’m not surprised it’s unlocked. Anyone who might steal from an unlocked home would know not to steal from here. But also, in all the time I’ve known him, I’ve never seen the main room in the center of his house empty. There’s always someone playing poker at the card table, drinking something at the bar, or arguing over what to watch on the television.
He had at least two dozen henchmen, and he found more regularly.
Sure, losing twelve of them was probably a significant blow, but it shouldn’t have cleared everyone out. Where did they all go? I try again, calling out a little louder this time. “Nojus?”
Walking into his house is one thing—it’s always had a bit of a revolving door. But I’ve never barged my way into his bedroom or really any of the rooms down the hall. That feels. . .different. “Nojus? It’s Adriana. I have your money.”
Still, nothing.
I’ll have to come back later. I pivot on my heel and turn toward the door just as it opens. Nojus barges through, slamming the door so hard that it hits the wall and bounces back. He nearly plows into me.
“Oh,” I say. “Sorry. I came with money.” I hold up the bag.
“You did.”
I nod.
That’s when I notice that Nojus isn’t alone. The two men with him walk in slower, eyeing me strangely. One’s shorter than Nojus, which is hard to do, really, and the other’s much, much taller. They both look about his age, and they’re both glaring at me.
“I told you I’d get it, and I did. It’s all here.”
“A half million?” He arches one eyebrow.
I nod and hold the bag out.
He takes it, his nostrils flaring. “Where are my men?”
“I had nothing to do with that,” I say. “That man kidnapped me, and I’ve been stuck in Russia. It took me forever to escape.”
“What man? What happened?” Nojus looks desperate.
I really thought he’d already know. I mean, their ashes were right there. “His name’s Leonid Ivanovich. They threatened me, and he—he burned them.” Even saying it makes me feel sick, because I can’t forget the image, the smell, and my horror.
Nojus’s face twists. “No one could have—”
“He did it in a park,” I say. “He’s sadistic, but I didn’t have anything to do with that.”
“The man who took you killed them,” he says. “In my book, that makes it your fault.”
