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“He was shot at the gas station, the same one I found you at. Why the hell would you be present in two places where separate murders took place? Nobody’s that unlucky, certainly not you. This wasn’t by chance.”
It’s obvious that he’s still angry, but he’s been able to rein in his explosive outbursts long enough for me to talk him down.
“How do you think I’m involved in this? Like I said, I can show you tons of proof that I have nothing to do with the State Fair shooting or your brother’s death. I know you’re a good person, Ruslan. Do the right thing.”
Of course, at this point I have no reason to believe that Ruslan is a good person at all. In fact, he might be the most unhinged psychopath I’ve ever met. He’s lucky that I’ve spent enough time around spoiled rich kids to tolerate it.
He thinks to himself, and I see the glassy sheen of his eyes begin to fade away. Maybe he does know better than to think I was instrumental in Misha’s death, but the shock of his loss has sent him spiraling in unpredictable ways.
“You were there… You were in both places,” he replies, his voice trailing off as the weight of his actions begins to collapse on him. “That’s the only thing that makes sense.”
I’m insulted that he could possibly blame me for anything after he was the one who kidnapped and held me captive all night. Out of everyone he could choose to frame as a scapegoat, why would it be me?
I shake my head at him. “You’re grieving, Ruslan. You’re acting irrationally because you’re desperate for answers. I’ve never lost a sibling, but I’m here to help you find answers if you’ll allow me to.”
His face finally begins to soften, and I’m able to release some of the tension in my body. Not very much, but I’ll take any progress.
“I just need it to make sense,” he says, his voice stern but much calmer now. “I can’t come up with any other reasons why you’d be here suddenly at the same time that my brother dies. It doesn’t make sense.”
Hearing the sadness in his voice makes my chest hurt. I want to climb over to him and hold him, telling him that it wasn’t his fault that Misha was killed.
But first, I need to convince him thatIdidn’t kill Misha.
“I need something to make sense. If I have nothing to grasp onto, then I’m lost. You’re the closest thing I’ve had to an explanation since I found out,” he continues.
“I know you’re hurting, and there’s nothing in the world that could justify what happened to your brother. But he would hate to see you in the state you’re in right now. He would want you to be healing if he had the chance to tell you,” I reply, reaching my hand over to the clutch and resting it on his.
Feeling the warmth of his hand under mine reignites the feelings that I had last night, but under the circumstances, they’re filtered into deep empathy. My chest fills with the heaviness of compassion as I look past his eyes and into his soul.
He’s just looking for answers, and he doesn’t know how else to do it.
He’s gritting his teeth, but he slides his hand out from under mine and places it on top. There’s no tension or pressure, but I can feel him trying to form a connection with me. I can’t imagine being so heartbroken with nobody to share it with.
I consider my words carefully, trying to ensure that I don’t upset him further by saying the wrong thing. I’ve never had to speak to anyone who had freshly experienced a significant loss, and I understand why others feel unprepared for it.
“I don’t claim to know anything about your brother, but I’m sure he would’ve wanted you to find out who really was responsible,” I say, once again trying to gently shift the blame off myself.
“I don’t know what he would have wanted. I thought I did, but now I feel like I’ve just let my anger cloud my judgment,” he replies. “He wasn’t angry like me. He was an adrenaline junkie, but he wasn’t angry. I was just acting on impulse.”
I turn and place my other hand on his, squeezing it slightly. “There’s still time for you to fix this before you do something you can’t take back. I’ll be right here with you. I know you’ll make the right choice.”
The way I’m speaking to Ruslan reminds me of how I would negotiate with a killer who had me chained up in their basement. It feels inauthentic and forced, but Ruslan is responding positively to it. All I have to do is get home in one piece.
Will I report Ruslan after this? I’m still not sure.
He’s a loose cannon, and he’s in great emotional distress. I’ve seen him run someone over without blinking. How could my conscience allow me to let him go?
If the police catch up to me and realize that I didn’t report him, they might come after me and accuse me of being Ruslan’s accomplice. Eric’s family is already out for blood, and they’d love to take me down if they thought I was cheating on their precious boy.
But then I look at Ruslan, and I remember the night we had together. I felt how careful he was, how badly he wanted to make me feel wanted. There’s good in him somewhere, he just needs to find it again.
Suddenly, Ruslan turns off the highway onto one of the exits leading to a barren country road.
My heart rate races again, and I thank God for the cover of night over my terrified eyes. This could be the moment that I say goodbye to a life I hadn’t even started living.
He pulls the car into a vacant lot, and before he gets the chance to park the car, he breaks down into tears.
I’ve never seen a man like Ruslan cry, especially not like this. His heavy, heaving sobs are earth-shattering, causing pain in my chest as I realize that even the most dangerous men are capable of feeling pain.
