Instead, I’m hollow.
Worn out and thinned down. For years, I survived on revenge, anger, and hatred. All those emotions that eat you from the inside out. This entire day has been rife with fear, shame, rage, and fighting.
I’ve been running on adrenaline and terror for hours. Now that they’re gone, my body wants to shut down completely.
But I can’t. Not yet.
I shove the door open. Even in the closed garage, the cold snatches my breath away, leaving me coughing in the painfully dry air. The road water that soaked into my dress starts stiffening. It can’t be much warmer than zero degrees.
I’m damn lucky I got back here.
I drag the duffel toward the steel-core door wrapped in wood veneer and fitted into a reinforced frame that leads to the house. I press my thumb to the biometric lock. Thankfully, my print is readable even through the film of white that covers most of my hand.
As soon as the lock disengages, I stumble into the mudroom.
Warmth welcomes me. Blessed, humidity-rich, life-saving warmth.
The heating system, air filtration, and lights all run on timers, maintaining the appearance of a lived-in home regardless of whether someone’s around. The ever-meticulous Dimitri set it all up.
He’s always been so smart. Constantly planning for every imaginable scenario.
The control panel for the whole setup glows green by the door leading into the main house. I punch in the code and watch the display flash. The security systems are active. Motion sensors haven’t picked up anything except me. The outside cameras show the approach roads and the perimeter in a full circle. Window and door alarms confirm all is clear.
No one has even so much as tried to enter.
I press my forehead against the wall, just for a second, to rest against something solid and unyielding that isn’t trying to kill me.
Peeling off my dress and stockings, I drop them straight into the garbage, along with my ruined shoes.
Then I turn my attention to the bag.
It sits damp and heavy, the nylon dark with melted snow. Lifting it to the table, I yank the zipper open.
You really want it? It’s down my pants.
Lying bastard.
I’d checked, even before he suggested it. After he passed out, I went through his pockets. I even searched around the hotel room in case he lost it during the fight and found nothing.
Which means the necklace was in his bag the whole time.
As I start to dig, I find a gun. Makarov, from the looks of it, though I’m no expert. I set the weapon aside. Then I come across a disassembled rifle, the components wrapped in cloth. It joins the handgun. A revolver. Multiple knives of various sizes, all high quality.
At least those are worth keeping.
Next come boxes and boxes of ammunition. Two first aid kits. Water bottles. Protein bars. Another gun. Brass knuckles. Rope, carabiners, tile cutters, and thin splinters of what might be bamboo.
I keep investigating and discover rolled clothing. Toiletries that I pour down the sink to ensure nothing is hidden. A wallet with several names and the same picture on each card. Stacks of cash.
No locket.
Picking up one of the knives, I cut through the seams, hunting in vain for any concealed pockets in the fabric.
Sharp disbelief rocks through my heart as I stare at the pile of gear surrounding me.
No.
I lunge forward and grab the bag, searching along the interior lining for false bottoms, for the clever spaces that don’t show up in casual investigations. My fingers probe every seam, every corner, every possible nook and cranny.
