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The door to the apartment is cracked open ever so slightly, just the way I left it. The woman in the wheelchair is still sitting in front of the grimy window in the dining room. She is wearing headphones. I can hear the faint, tinny sound of something loud playing. I walk past her to Noelle’s room.
I’m going to grab Piper, force her somewhere safe, and keep her there until this all boils over. Until Kreshnik is dead and Sergey has been neutralized.
Except when I push the door open, the nest of blankets where Noelle had been huddled are tossed to the end of the bed. The bed is empty. No one is in the room.
“Piper?” I spin around and then move down the hall to the next room. Then to the bathroom.
She isn’t here.
I storm into the dining room. The woman in the wheelchair is facing me now. The headphones are in her lap and her mouth is set in a firm line.
“They left,” she informs me. “They made me face the wall with these headphones on so I wouldn’t see or hear anything. ‘The less I know, the better.’ That’s what Noelle’s friend said.”
My fist clenches into a ball that might never come undone.
Piper was right. If this woman knew anything that could lead me to Piper, I’d torture it out of her.
Why is she always saving everyone else to the detriment of herself?
I run out of the apartment and stomp down the stairs. I know she didn’t leave through the front door. She had enough sense not to do that. So I head to the back of the building and find a broken emergency exit door hanging open. I look up and down the alley, but it’s empty.
Piper is gone.
40
PIPER
I reach into my pocket and pull out my phone. Timofey’s number is the first one in my recent calls list. I tap his name.
Before the call can connect, Noelle slaps the phone out of my hand. “You’re not calling anyone. You aren’t turning me in.”
“I’m calling Timofey. He’ll decide where you belong.”
I bend down to grab my phone and Noelle yanks my hair. “Fuck no.”
My head snaps back, and I swing an arm towards her. My fist glances off of her cheek. Then Noelle takes a swing at me. Her knuckles connect solidly with my cheekbone, and I see stars.
“Stop fighting,” she growls. “And stop looking for that baby. He’s dead.”
Maybe I would have laid down. But her words start a fire in my chest.
Noelle turns to run, and I grab the back of her pajama shirt. The material rips around the collar as she pulls.
“He is not dead! Tell me where—”
“No!” Noelle spins around, the oversized shirt twisting around her midsection. She shoves me back with both hands, and I lose hold of her.
I stumble back. My sense of balance is bad enough on its own, but made even worse by my pregnancy. I’m dizzy.
Noelle could turn and run, but she shoves me again. This time, I don’t have any hope of staying on my feet. They’re already out from under me.
Instinctively, I twist to try and catch myself on my arms, but I don’t realize the bench is right behind me. The corner of the bench catches me hard in the side, and I slide to the ground with a breathless wheeze.
“Don’t follow me,” Noelle hisses.
Then she turns and runs.
But I’m not paying any attention to her. My hands are folded over my stomach as another wave of nausea rolls through me.
