Page 7

“Kyrie.” His voice is in pieces. He held my son in his hands the week he was born. I keep my back to him so he can keep what’s left of his face.

“Find me a forensic accountant.” It comes out calm, ordered, the one machine in me that still turns clean. “The best in this city. Not the big firms, not the names everyone knows. The one those names call at three in the morning when they’ve hit a wall they can’t get past.”

“Adrianos.” My name, bare, no title, which I get from him perhaps once a year. “Take tonight off. This can wait until the morning. The dead don’t move faster for our—”

“It can’t wait any longer.” I turn, and whatever’s in my face takes the rest of the sentence out of his mouth before he can finish it. “They put my son in the sea. My parents. Every hour I spend grieving instead of moving is an hour they sleep without dreaming. I won’t make them that gift.” I hold his eyes. “Fuck, I could really use Kalliopi right now. Make sure you find someone just as good as she was.”

He looks at me a long moment, the grief in him and the order both, then lowers his head, nearer to a bow than anything he’s given me in nineteen years. “They’ll be here by morning,” he says, and goes to make it true.

I dismiss the rest with a glance. The penthouse drains. The elevator carries them down into the city and leaves me alone with the lights, the glass, and the silence I designed into every wall, the silence I paid a fortune to own, the silence that now holds more than the architecture was ever meant to bear.

I walk the long hall to the east side of the floor and open the door of my son’s room.

The dark inside still smells like him, like the room was lived in this week, because it was. I leave the light off. I let my eyes find the edges, the bed he wouldn’t let anyone make, the desk lost under a reef of cables, a textbook splayed to a page that will now stay on that page forever. My own gray hoodie thrown across the chair, stolen two winters back because he liked drowning in it. On the windowsill, a glass of water gone still, set down days before he flew, a fine gray skin of dust already gathering on top of it.

I cross the room. I don’t break anything. I don’t put my fist through a wall or sweep a desk bare. I don’t make even the smallest of sounds. Instead, I stand in the middle of my son’s room in the dark, in a suit that still carries the faint trace of a stranger’s whiskey, and I let the cold keep coming. There’s no bottom to it. I learned that the first time, with Nikos’ mother. You don’t fall until you land. You just keep falling, and you learn to live at the bottom of a thing that doesn’t have one.

4

Elena

My front door has a deadbolt, a chain, and a landlord who took four months to fix the buzzer, and at three in the morning all three of those facts become irrelevant in the time it takes a door to stop being a door.

I am awake before I understand why. Then the ceiling light is on, the bad one I keep meaning to replace, and there are men standing in my bedroom under it, and the part of my brain that solves things for a living offers me, helpfully, the word intruder, as if naming it does anything.

Four. I count them before I do anything a sane person would do, like scream, because counting is the reflex that fires when the rest of me is still buffering. Four men, all in black, and not one of them is talking. That is the detail that finally gets my heart up off the floor and running. The ones who shout have a plan that needs shouting. The ones who work in silence have done this enough times that the silence is just the efficient setting, and I get there far too quickly, and getting there does me no good whatsoever. I know the texture of what is happening to me. I do not know what to do about it. Twenty-eight years of being the smartest person in every room I have stood in, and the one room where it would actually save my life, my brain hands me a body count and a vocabulary word and nothing I can use.

“Wait,” I say. The word comes out cracked down the middle. “Wait, there’s nothing here. I don’t keep cash, there’s a laptop, it’s encrypted, it’s worth less than the locks you just broke, whatever you were told is in this apartment is—”

A hand closes on my arm, and the rest of it dies in my mouth. The grip is not angry. I keep waiting for it to be angry but it never is, and that is so much worse, because angry would mean a person, but this is just procedure, the hold of a man who has moved a lot of people who didn’t want moving and learned the exact amount of force that does the job and leaves nothing behind to account for. He lifts me off the mattress and sets me on my feet like furniture being rearranged, and my legs take the weight, which astonishes me, because everything north of my knees has turned to seawater.

I am shaking. I observe it from somewhere slightly outside myself, the way you would observe it in a stranger on a train. My hands won’t hold still. My teeth want to chatter, but I clamp them. There is a thin sound coming out of me on every breath, and I cannot stop it, but I cannot make it louder either, because some old animal switch has been thrown in me and decided that small and quiet is survival, that the move is to not be worth the trouble. Me. Quiet. There is a joke in there, but I’m too frightened to find it. The body knows things the mouth spends its whole life arguing with, and tonight the body has the floor, and the body is scared out of its mind.

The hood comes down over my head, dark cloth pulled close. It smells of breath and sweat and the sour ghost of fear that’s not mine, gone into the fabric over time, and that’s the thing that opens a trapdoor under my ribs. Other people have worn this. My wrists are pulled behind me, the zip tie cinched down until the plastic finds bone, and the sound I make then is not the thin one. It comes up out of me high and stupid and wordless, and one of them speaks for the first and only time.

“Walk.”

So I walk, except I don’t, my feet do, because a flat hand between my shoulder blades makes them. Bare soles on the hallway tile I mop on Sundays, then the cold sandpaper of the stairwell, then a slap of night air that tells me we’re outside and that I’m in a tank top and sleep shorts and nothing else in front of the whole indifferent dark. The cold is the smallest item on a long list, but my brain keeps presenting it to me anyway, here, deal with the cold, because the cold is a problem with a solution, and the rest is a black wall I cannot see the far side of.

They fold me into a trunk. I would love to say I fought, but what I did was the only fighting on offer to a woman with her hands behind her back and a bag on her head, which is to lock up rigid and useless while a palm presses my spine down into the dark, and the lid comes down, and the engine catches six inches from my ear and turns my own scream back into my mouth.

So I count. It is the last thing I have that belongs to me, so I do it the whole way down, because the only other option is the scream, but the scream is standing at the base of my throat with its hand already on the latch.

Right turn out of the street, that one I know. I have walked it ten thousand mornings half-asleep with a coffee. Left at the long light. Then three minutes of straight road and no stops, which is wrong for my neighborhood at any hour of any night, so we are on something larger, an avenue feeding a bridge. The car slows, then climbs, and the sound under the tires goes from asphalt to the hollow metal song of a grated deck, and that is a bridge, I would stake my life on it, which is a phrase I will never use lightly again. The smell finds me through the trunk seal, wet and green and rotted at the edges, the river at the bottom of the tide. We are over water now. I am crossing a river in the trunk of a car and not one person who loves me knows I’m not asleep under my own blanket.

That’s the thought that nearly finishes me, and it’s not the men or the tie or the dark that brings it. It’s my mother. My mother thinks I’m safe right now, thinks her difficult, clever daughter’s home in bed. If this goes the way the secondhand fear in this hood says it’s gone before, then the next time anyone says my name out loud, it’ll be a phone call, then a box, then someone standing at the lip of a hole with both fists clenched because opening them feels unsafe.

I did that nine days ago. I stood exactly there. And Kalliopi arrives behind my eyes without being asked, because I never got to count one single thing for her, not a turn, not a smell, not a grated deck, just the call and then the dirt and the lilies she’d have despised. The cruelty of it is that I’ve got all this data now, the turns, the river, the metal under the wheels, and I had nothing then, when it was her, when it might have mattered, and that’s the thought I breathe through the hood to outrun. I keep counting, because counting’s the one wall still standing between me and going to pieces in a stranger’s trunk.

The car drops down off the bridge into the stutter of city streets, lights and stops, a grid under the tires, Manhattan if the river was the one I think it was. The turns come faster than I can hold them and I lose the count somewhere past the eleventh. Losing it is a small private bereavement, because the count was mine. It was the only thing in this car I still owned, and now I don’t even have that.

We stop. The trunk lifts and the air changes, cool and flat and boxed in, exhaust and poured concrete, the belly of a building. Hands again, the same drilled grip, standing me upright, steering me forward. A soft chime I’d know in my sleep. An elevator, an expensive one, the doors sealing with the moneyed hush of a building that pays a premium for silence, and we rise, and keep rising, long enough that my ears pop and I count floors by the pressure in them until I lose that too, the way everything goes tonight.

The doors part. They walk me out, and the ground changes under my bare feet, from the dead carpet of the car to stone, cold and seamless and polished to glass, the kind that costs more than marble while pretending to be modest about it. My toes understand the money before the rest of me does. I’m standing on flooring worth more per square foot than my whole building, hooded and bound and shaking down to the teeth, and the part of my brain that never shuts off is quietly running the math on the stone.

The hood comes off.

The light is low and warm and does nothing to make the room smaller, and it isn’t a room so much as a position taken, glass down two whole walls, the entire city tipped out below it, the bridges I just crossed strung up in light like a circuit board, the black thread of the river I smelled from inside the trunk. Everything in here is what’s been left out rather than what’s been put in, no gold, no clutter, no display, only distance and air and a silence you can’t find in any store. There’s a desk, dark wood, nothing on its surface but one lamp and the man sitting behind it.