I grunt, but he’s right. “What can I say? If it wasn’t for you and Ivy and everything that happened last year, I never would have accepted Damian’s call in the first place.”
Ruslan’s smile somehow grows wider.
“But don’t get cocky,” I say. “Your ego’s big enough.”
Ruslan points his fingers at me and finger guns with a grin. “I’m never gonna let you forget that you said this.”
“Don’t count on it,” I reply as I move to the door. “I’m still high on morphine.”
Ruslan follows while laughing softly. “You want some help tracking down wherever it is you’re going to track down?”
“No. At least not yet. There’s somewhere I want to visit first.”
5
ZIRA
Aweek of nightmares.
A week of waking in a cold sweat and immediately throwing up.
A week of jumping at every knock at the door, every clatter from my neighbor’s apartment, every scrape of furniture or noise from Peter moving around my home.
When will it end?
I lay in bed, half my face pushed into the pillow while my attention locks on my bedside table clock, watching it count down to my alarm. Not that I need it. I’ve been awake for hours after once again dreaming of murdering that poor man for Harris.
All to protect my brother.
I told myself it was worth it when Harris dropped me off here the night of, and Peter was waiting on the doorstep. I told myself it was worth it when Harris swore their debt was settled and we’d never have to see each other again. I told myself it was worth itwhen we shared dinner and Peter thanked me over and over for saving his life.
Then I took a shower and it didn’t feel worth it.
Even now, as time creeps closer and closer to my alarm, it doesn’t feel worth it. We robbed my store, traumatized my co-workers, and then I murdered someone. I can’t even look at myself in the mirror for fear of who or what I might see looking back.
My stomach cramps, but there’s nothing left inside me to throw up. I’m empty, haven’t eaten in days. Keeping anything down has been a challenge, but I accept it as my punishment. Somewhere in the city, there will be people missing the man I killed. Despite my attempts to avoid it, each night I crawl into bed, I spend hours on social media looking for missing persons reports or people reaching out because the Bradley they loved has vanished off the face of the earth. During the day, I flinch at news reports, waiting to hear about the body dragged from the river.
But there’s nothing.
Just silence that echoes in the cavern of guilt that swallows me up from the inside.
Seconds before my alarm, I throw my hand out and turn it off to save me from the blare, but I still lie there for ten more minutes just watching the numbers tick up.
I’m back at work today.
The store’s been closed all week for the police investigation and to give staff time to recover, but it reopens today and everyone’s been called in.
I’m going to quit.
I can’t stomach being there and I can’t look those people in the eye knowing I’m the one who scared them.
After dragging myself from my bed, I shower quickly and wander into the kitchen to make some tea. Halfway through squeezing the teabag out, the door clacks open, and I jump out of my skin, losing my grip on the spoon. It clatters with the tea bag across the counter, and I manage to snatch it before it falls to the floor. Heavy footsteps thump down the hall toward me, matching the thundering pounding of my heart, and every nerve in my body lights up as the kitchen door swings open.
“Hey.” My brother Peter stumbles inside with a lopsided smile.
The sight of him doesn’t relax me as much as it did that first night. Being free from Harris was supposed to be a new start for us, but the sharp cloud of alcohol that follows Peter shows me exactly where he’s spending his time and his money.
“You didn’t come home last night,” I say quietly, watching him collapse into the wooden chair next to my small kitchen table. “I was worried.”
