Page 110 of Mr. Match

“He was quite infatuated with you that summer. Which wasn’t good, since you had to leave and I wouldn’t need him anymore. He even bought a piece of your art.”

“What?” I say. “Is my whole world falling down right now?”

“I had to yell at him like a son that time. I told him he could keep it, but he was to never contact you again. You would be back, I said. One day. But until then, he should hide that photograph and put you out of his mind.”

“Oliver,” I say, suddenly so very, very sad. “I thought he was one of the good guys.”

“Yeah.” The Russian sighs. “Your instincts are impressive.”

“What are you talking about?” I snap, suddenly angry. “If he works for you, then he’s bad.”

“They set him up too. Not his fault. He’s not one of them. I would advise second chance, Katya Kalashova. Or better yet, never speak of it.”

The car stops and I hold my breath as the driver gets out and walks around the back of the car, and opens the door.

“This is it?” I ask.

“The end,” the Russian says. “Get out, Katya.” I start to slide over but he grabs my wrist. “Oh, you almost got away.” But then he lets go of my wrist and taps a finger on his tablet. To the live drone feed over the house on the mountain.

Jesus fuck. Make this day go away.

“I need your choice. Thumbs up or thumbs down. You know what my choice will be.”

I scoot over the rest of the way and get out of the car. There are motorcycles everywhere. And people dressed up like zombies. It’s probably close to morning and today is the day the Zombie Run rides through Downtown Fort Collins.

I lean in the car and look him in the eye. “Well, I’m gonna leave it up to you then. I think you have a better understanding of the situation. Goodbye, Mr. Russian.”

He smiles, almost as if he’s proud of me. “Goodbye, Miss Kalashova. I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

I step back from the curb and watch the driver close the door and walk back around the car. I can see the light from the tablet inside the car, even though the very dark tinted windows. I think he taps the screen, but what that means, I have no idea.

So I just turn… and come face to face with Oliver Shrike sitting on the bus stop bench across the street from his house.

“Hey,” he says with a long breath of air. He looks tired, and cold, and ready for something good to happen. Kinda like me. “Would you like to stay for breakfast? Start this whole thing over again?”

I have a whole life’s worth of things to say to him right now. Everything is inside me. Stacking up into a tall, tall tower of sadness, and shame, and regret. I want to scream at him for lying. I want to hug him hard for being here on this stupid fucking bench just when I need him most.

I want to send him away and hold him close at the same time.

And everything plays out in my head. Every possible ending to this day. Or is this the beginning of a new morning? I hear all the words come streaming from my mouth, and then I feel myself suck them right back in and swallow them down.

Maybe I will hold these words in forever? Or maybe I will spit them out next week, or next month, or next year?

All I know is that right now is not the time to say things I can’t take back tomorrow.

Because maybe he’s not a good guy. But he’s definitely better than most.

“Yeah,” I say, “I’d like that.” My voice is strong and steady, and for once in my life, it’s not afraid. When Oliver takes my hand and walks me across the street to the gated fortress he built while I was gone, I don’t look over my shoulder.

And when we go inside, he doesn’t even bother to arm the security system.

He knows, I realize. He knows the Russian gave me that choice. And he knows what’s gonna happen next. So he cooks me comfort food for breakfast. Grilled cheese and tomato soup. And we watch it all happen live on the news.

“I think it’s over,” I say, hours later when everything is still happening and the reporters are still exhilarated watching the mansion burn down after the massive explosion.

“Maybe,” Oliver says through a yawn. “But something tells me there’s one more loose end to tie up.”

We don’t wait for it. Oliver takes me upstairs, undresses me slowly, and then writes one more thing on my body. Right over the top of the silver-white scar on my throat.