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I’m not sure if he understands me because he stares at me for so long. But after a minute, he walks over to the living room and drops down on the couch. It wheezes under his massive weight.
So he can understand at least some of what I’m saying. He understands when people tell him Kirill isn’t here, which he hates. He understands when I tell him Kirill is coming, which helps. He can sit down on a sofa.
I can work with all that.
I sit on the opposite side of the coffee table facing him. “Do you live here?”
The man leans across the coffee table, coming within an arm’s reach of me. Then he wags his fingers through the air to mime “rain” again.
“Yeah. I’m Rayne.” I make the motion, too. “Rayne. That’s me. What’s your name?”
He stares at me for a few seconds. Then he turns to the window.
For a long time, we marinate in the quiet. He stares through the window at the ocean below, and I realize that the third floor isn’t a prison at all.
It’s a paradise.
The apartment is soaked in natural light and it has a breathtaking view of the beach and the water. This person is someone Kirill cares about. And the feeling is clearly mutual.
But looking out on the water, I can see that the sun is starting to set. I’ll miss my bus if I don’t hurry. Plus, I have no idea when Sonya is coming back or who she’s bringing with her. I should get out of here before I cause any more trouble.
I shift forward and start to stand. “I have to go. Is it okay if I leave you—”
The man jolts out of his chair and falls across the coffee table. I scream, so surprised by his reaction. My scream sets him off.
“Kirill!” he cries, his loudest wail yet.
He pounds his fist on the coffee table and one of the wood trim pieces cracks and falls off. A few more hits like that and I think one of the legs might buckle. I can see blood on the edge of his hand.
“Be careful.” I reach out to steady his hand. “You’re hurting yourself. Don’t hit the—”
The second my hand touches him, the man flings his arm out. The hit isn’t hard, but there’s power behind it nonetheless, like a painless electric shock. I thud back against the couch a little breathless. Dazed more than anything else.
The man is still pounding the coffee table, but he’s moving closer to me. With every step, he’s nearing me. I don’t think he means any harm, but I don’t know what he’s capable of. I don’t thinkheknows what he’s capable of, either.
I have to get out of here.
“Kirill!” the man cries again.
“Kirill is coming,” I say loud enough to be heard over his scream. “Kirill is coming. Kirill is—”
“Kirill is here.” The familiar deep voice behind me sends the room into complete silence.
The man goes still, his bloody fist raised in the air, ready to bring it down on the coffee table again.
Then, like the flip of a switch, he grins and melts. “Kirill.”
“Hi, Ilya,” Kirill says, more tenderly than I’ve ever heard him say anything. “How’s it going, buddy?”
16
RAYNE
The man—Ilya—moves around the couch and throws himself at Kirill. The two men embrace.
It’s a bizarre enough sight that I wouldn’t be shocked to learn Ilya had knocked me out and I’m dreaming. But I can still feel the ache in my chest from where his arm knocked me sideways. I’m fairly certain that means I’m awake.
“Kirill. Kirill.” Ilya says his name again and again like he can’t believe what he’s seeing. Every time he lets go of Kirill, he pulls him right back in for another hug.
