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“Sonya, are you okay?” I blurt.
I hold out a hand, but even now, she swats it away. “Get out of here! I’m going for help.”
Sonya brushes past me and through the double doors behind.
And I’m alone with the scarred man.
Get out. Turn and run.That’s what I should do.
I almost do. But the man keeps pulling at the wallpaper, screaming Kirill’s name. Except, when I stop and listen, I realize he isn’t screaming at all.
He’s crying.
It does something to me, the music of his tears. He sounds sadder than anyone I’ve ever heard in my life.
“Do you know Kirill?” I ask tentatively.
At the sound of my voice, he drops the wallpaper he was holding and turns to me. He almost looks surprised to see me. Like he already forgot I was standing here.
“Hi,” I say softly. I don’t dare move towards him. Not yet. But I wave. “I’m Rayne.”
“Rayne.” He scrunches up his face and then points to the windows. His fingers wag as he brings his hands down like a little kid singingThe Itsy Bitsy Spider. “Rain.”
“Rayne like rain. Yeah, that’s me.”
He’s calm for a second, studying me. It gives me a second to study him. He’s massive—both tall and broad—but it looks natural. He isn’t muscled like he would be if he’d been making use of any of the three gyms in this house. His jaw and arms have a softness to them. His hair is a sandy brown color, but his green eyes are vivid and captivating. He’s weirdly ageless, though if I had to guess, I’d say somewhere between twenty and forty.
I’m so lost in studying him that I don’t realize he’s moving towards me until it’s too late.
“Oh, hi,” I say again, taking a step back.
The movement startles him. I see the shift in his expression. The way he pulls back, his scarred face creasing in confusion.
“Kirill,” he whines. Then he roars, “Kirill!”
When his bellows quiet down, I ask, “You know Kirill?”
The sound of the name seems to calm him. He blinks at me. “Kirill.”
I nod. “I know Kirill, too.”
I’m not entirely sure if knowing Kirill is a good or a bad thing, but when the man smiles, I have my answer: Kirill is a friend.
I can’t say it’s not a relief. Better than this being a torture chamber, if nothing else.
“Does Kirill visit you?”
He looks past me towards the door, his eyes drawing together. “Where?”
“He’s not here right now, but—”
He cries Kirill’s name again, and I stumble back on instinct.
“He’ll be here,” I tell him, lying to save my own skin. “Kirill is coming. He’ll be here.”
The man is breathing heavily from his tantrum, but he stills at the reassurance.
“We can sit down,” I say, pointing to the living room. “Do you want to sit down?”
