I let out half a laugh as relief washed over me.She was alright.“Not sure they serve vodka in this fine establishment.”
A corner of her mouth twitched.Not quite a smile, but a little less agony.
“I think I’m all sugared out after the ice cream,” she said, and finally met my eyes.The stare was direct, but I could see her holding herself together with spit and duct tape.
“Okay,” I said, and leaned back in my chair, putting distance between us.“No more talking about the dark stuff.”
She nodded, let go of the cup, and started picking at the paper napkin in front of her, shredding it into confetti.
I considered what bullshit topic would be least likely to trigger a flashback.Humor seemed to be her go-to method of dealing with anything uncomfortable.
“Can I just say—these chairs are some kind of Geneva Convention violation.”
Nadya snorted.“Try spending six hours in one.I almost had to ice my ass.”
I grinned.“Brutal.You’d think with all the money they make from parking tickets, they’d spring for seat cushions.”
“They spend it on the light bulbs.Every time I blink, I get an afterimage of the ceiling panels.Like a free rave but for masochists.”
I let her set the pace for our hospital-trashing small talk.Her shoulders unspooled, just enough to notice, but she kept rubbing the tattoo of three stars on her wrist, and there was still an ocean of sadness in the depth of her eyes.
Slowly, her voice steadied, and her smile became a little less forced.
“You know, you’re really good at this,” she said.
“Good at what?”
“This.”She waved her hand like that would’ve explained it all.“Most guys would’ve run the other way after my freakout.”
Yeah, and most guys would’ve been happy with a pat on the back for a quick rescue, call it case closed, and go on with their life.I couldn’t do it, not when I had this nagging feeling that there was more to Ljuba’s kidnapping.And yeah, it was a good excuse to spend more time with the woman I hadn’t been able to get out of my head for two damn years.Either way, I was digging deeper into it.
“I learned early on that being a weak asshole is the worst strategy when you’re trying to get the girl,” I answered.
This time, she did smile—a full one, a real one.The dimple on her left cheek looked so freaking cute I wanted to poke it.
I steered the conversation away from anything dangerous.“So, art?You work at a gallery, right?Or are you one of those tortured genius types who moonlights as a barista?”
Of course I had done some research about my victim and her family, so I knew Nadya worked at a gallery now.
“Wow,” she said, “you just made fun of every Brooklynite I’ve ever met.”
“I aim high.”
She tapped the side of her empty ice cream cup.“I work at a gallery, but I also paint.It’s...cheaper than therapy, and if you’re lucky, people will pay you to keep doing it.Larisa, my boss, says I have ‘a gift for emotional terrorism.’That’s a compliment, by the way.”
I raised an eyebrow.“You paint haunted dolls, or what?”
“Haunted everything.But sometimes, yeah, people.Faces that look like they’re about to cry or punch you in the face.I’m a hit at children’s birthday parties.”
I snorted.“You’d make a killing at the FBI office.We could use more existential dread on the walls.”
She laughed, and it was genuine.I felt the ice in my gut start to thaw.
Nadya relaxed into her chair, legs stretched out, arms loose.She ran her fingers through her hair, tucking a streak behind her ear, and I noticed her accent snuck into some words when she was animated.Her voice sped up, higher and lighter, the words clipped at the ends.I tried to memorize the sound of it, just in case I never heard it again.
“Tell me about your job,” she said, turning the spotlight.“You guys always kick in doors and shoot the bad guys, or is it mostly paperwork?”
“Oh, we definitely shoot the bad guys.On Fridays.The rest of the week is just HR videos and online forms that never load right.If I had a dollar for every time I got logged out of the FBI database, I’d have enough money to buy your entire gallery.”
