“Zara.” He says my name like he’s fucking tasting it. And there’s something about the way he’s looking at me that makes my pulse quicken even more. It’s like he’s undressing me with his eyes.
“What you want us to do with her, boss?” one of his men asks, bringing me back to reality.
The gorgeously deadly giant steps closer. So close I can smell his cologne, something expensive and intoxicating. So close I can see the lighter flecks in his dark eyes.
“Nothing yet,” he rumbles, never breaking eye contact with me. Then he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a business card. My eyes fall on it. It’s black with silver lettering. No name, just a phone number.
“When the police come asking questions, you call this number, yeah?”
I nod, not trusting my voice.
“Good girl.” The praise makes something clench between my legs. What the fuck?! “Now go home. And Zara?” I’m already backing away, but I stop. “Don’t make me come looking for you.”
I turn and run. I don’t stop until I reach my shitty apartment six blocks away. My hands shaking as I unlock the deadbolts on my door. Once inside, I slide down to the worn carpet and finallylet myself fall apart. Shaking all over, tears falling down my face, I curl into a ball.
I witnessed a murder. I saw a man die. And the killer looked at me like I was his next meal.
Why, God? Why is this my fucking life? No place to call home. No one to call mine but a couple of friends. Nothing to look forward to but a life of grind. And now this…
The sharp corners of his card bite into my palm as another sob breaks through me.
* * *
Three days pass before they come. I’m working the morning shift at Rosetti’s, trying to pretend my life is back to normal despite the sleepless nights, the circles under my eyes, my jumpiness at the smallest touch or sound, when two detectives walk through the door. One’s a middle-aged man with tired eyes. The other, a younger woman with sharp features and a no-nonsense attitude.
As soon as they walk in, I know. The way they scan the place, quickly introduce themselves to my boss, and come to me after he’s pointed in my direction, makes my blood turn to ice.
“Zara Thompson?” The woman flashes her badge. “Detective Martinez, San Francisco PD. This is Detective Sullivan. We’d like to ask you a few questions.”
With shaky hands, I set down the coffeepot I was holding and turn to face them. “About what?”
“There was a murder three nights ago in the alley behind the diner. We’re canvassing the area, talking to people who might have seen something.”
Breathe, Zara.
“I didn’t see anything,” I lie, holding her gaze.
Detective Martinez studies my face. “You sure? We have surveillance footage showing you leaving through the back exit around the time of the incident.”
My mouth goes dry. “I was just taking out the trash.”
“Interesting,” Sullivan chimes in. “Therewasa trash bag sitting there when we processed the scene.”
Fuck!
They know. They have to know. My heart is beating so fast, blood thumping in my ears, I’m sure they can hear it.
“Look,” Martinez says in a gentler voice. “If you saw something, we can protect you. But we need you to tell us what happened.”
The black card I’ve been carrying around feels like it’s burning a hole in my pocket. I think about the killer’s scary eyes, about his deadly voice… I saw what that man could do. Even if the police wanted to, I’m not sure they could protect me against someone like that. My decision is made in a split second.
“I need to use the bathroom,” I blurt out and rush to the back of the diner.
In the employee restroom, I lock the door behind me and pull out his card with trembling fingers, my cell phone in my other hand. Then I take a deep breath and dial.
He answers on the first ring.
“Maksimov.”
