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It’s all your fault. You brought this onto yourself. It was your decision to go with that guy.
I drag my hands into my hair and squeeze as if pulling at the roots will rip the voice out of my head. But it continues.
You thought he was nice. He was a sexual predator who raped you and threw you into a prostitution ring, and you found him nice! You’re not capable of sound reasoning.
I reach out to grab the note Pasha left and focus on the first couple of lines.
“When you wake up, you can explore the apartment. I left some food on the counter in the kitchen. Eat.”
It’s an instruction. Not a question. I don’t have to make the decision myself. I just need to follow what he said. A sigh of relief leaves my lips. Clutching the note in my hand, I climb down off the bed and, taking the T-shirt he left, head out of the room.
Pasha’s place is very upscale. Everything—from the modern dark furniture to the soft, thick carpets and heavy curtains—looks expensive. There is no clutter, no little trinkets on the shelves, or anything like that. I found two other bedrooms, significantly smaller than the one where I slept. They don’t seem to be in use.
The living room is the largest space in the apartment, with a TV mounted on the wall and a couch and two recliners in front of it. I stand in the middle of the room and look around. One bookshelf. Several modern paintings on the walls. It’s nice, but it all seems staged as if it’s a setup for an interior design magazine or a showroom. It feels strange to be in a place like this.
At home, all our shelves and walls are covered with photos of Sienna and me, with a random one of Arturo when we managed to convince him to take a picture with us. Sienna’s fashion magazines and my music sheets are strewn around. The throw pillows on the sofa are mismatched. There are dog toys everywhere. Random hair products and body balms usually litter strange places like the kitchen counter or the TV shelf. Something squeezes in my chest when I think about home. It seems foreign, somehow, as if my home belongs to someone else.
I clench the paper in my hand tighter and head into the kitchen. The countertops are shiny and black, with a glass stove that looks like it has never been used. The size of the black fridge seems like it could store enough food to last ten people a week, but when I open it, the only contents are several bottles of water, a carton of milk, three tomatoes, and an unopened pack of cheese.
The countertop runs the entire length of the wall, but the only item on it is a coffee machine. No spice jars, no holder for cups. Nothing. Just a coffee machine. On the island, he left out some breakfast food for me. Should I cook some eggs, or just have some marmalade on the bread? An unpleasant tingling spreads through my insides. It’s either eggs or marmalade; I don’t think I can eat both. But when I think about picking one, the anxiety in my stomach intensifies.
What the fuck is wrong with me that I can’t make such an idiotically small decision? The same thing happened this morning when Pasha asked me if I wanted to take a shower. I was filthy. I needed a shower. But when he asked, I couldn’t make the decision. I grab the edge of the island and stare at the stuff left out for me. Eggs or marmalade? It’s a simple choice, damn it! Why can’t I fucking decide?!
After twenty minutes of staring, I end up frying the eggs while eating a slice of bread with marmalade and feeling like an idiot the whole time.
At least the fever I had has passed.
By the time I’m finished with my meal, it’s already dark outside, and I don’t know what to do. The note said to explore and eat. Not what to do after that. I could go back to sleep or maybe read something. There is a bunch of books on the bookshelf in the living room. I can’t watch TV without my glasses unless I stand right in front of it. Read? Sleep? I need to make a decision again, but I can’t!
Grabbing the sides of my head, I pull on my hair and a frustrated whine leaves my lips. I read the last part of the note again.
“I went to work and won’t be back till 3 a.m. If you’re thinking of running away, please don’t. Wait until I’m back.”
He said to wait for him. Simple. Direct. Unquestionable. The pressure in my chest dissipates. I stand a couple of steps from the front door. And wait. Anyone looking at me now might think they are seeing a trained dog. I don’t give a fuck. The only thing I care about at this moment is not feeling this overwhelming anxiety anymore. I’ll deal with my fucked-up psyche some other day. I sit on the floor, wrap my arms around my legs, and stare at the front door.
My phone rings as I’m parking my car at the end of the long row of vehicles pulled up in front of the pakhan’s house. The last in line is a big red bike. Something major must be up since Roman’s called the top brass, including Sergei. I grab the phone from the passenger seat and take the call.
“Doc?”
“I have the girl’s results. As far as STDs are concerned, she’s clean. Negative on the pregnancy, too. The bloodwork shows she’s a bit anemic, but that’s it.”
“What about the drugs?”
“Well, that’s the interesting part. The substance found in her system isn’t listed. It looks like it may be something new, something that hasn’t hit the mainstream, yet.”
“That’s strange.”
“Wait, there’s more. The test came back on the pills Vladimir dropped off the other day. It’s the same stuff.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Did you tell Roman?”
“I did. Just got off from the call with him.”
I stiffen. “So . . . you told him about the girl?”
