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The distance between us seems to stretch and deform, the light fading as if it only exists at the end of a very long tunnel. I’m halfway to fainting, realizing how completely and utterly fucked I am in this moment.
“Who are you?” I say, striving for the lightest, most innocent of tones, while my blood turns to lead in my veins, and my knees wobble beneath me.
“Adrik tried to insult my intelligence,” Zakharov says, quietly. “I hoped you’d be smarter, Sabrina.”
Fuuuuuuuck me.
I try to think of a way past them, my brain firing madly, while I stare at the impossible barrier of Cujo and the gun in his hand.
Cujo knows what I’m thinking. He tracks my movement, a smile playing at the edges of his thick lips.
“Krystiyan is dead,” I say, inching back from the men, toward my backpack, the cabinets, and the gas range.
“That seems to happen to your partners with surprising frequency.”
“I guess I’m unlucky. I’d prefer if they stayed alive.”
I’m back at the stove. No more room to retreat. Through the solid plaster behind me, I hear the clinking of plates, the shouts of the expediter, and the sizzle of steaks. I could scream and bang on the wall, but I doubt anyone would come running.
Zakharov tilts his head, the light flashing across the lenses of his glasses so they become opaque and then clear again. His breath rattles in his lungs.
“You’re going to tell me everything I want to know.”
My back is against the wall. My gun is in my backpack, my knife in my pocket. If I reach for either, Cujo will shoot me.
“I don’t know anything.” I rest my hand lightly on the stove top. “I’m just the chef.”
“I think we both know that’s not true.”
Zakharov nods to Cujo.
Cujo barrels toward me like a bull, head lowered.
Instead of diving for my backpack, I reach behind the stove and yank the metal coil out of the wall. The light hiss of escaping gas is drowned by my shout as Cujo grabs my ponytail and wrenches me backward. My tailbone connects with the floor, sending a sharp jolt all the way up my spine, immediately dwarfed by shrieking, tearing pain as he drags me across the tiles by my hair.
He flings me down in front of Zakharov.
Zakharov looks down on me dispassionately, his face as blank as the flat lenses of his spectacles.
“Where is Krystiyan?” he repeats.
“I told you, he’s dead.”
Cujo backhands me across the face. The force of that slap is like a bomb detonating in my brain. My body flies sideways, my skull slamming against the cabinets.
I come to when Cujo grabs my hair and sets me upright once more. The whole side of my face is on fire, buzzing like I’ve been stung by a swarm of bees.
“Where is he?” Zakharov repeats.
“In his house, dead on the floor, I told you!”
“Since when?”
“Last night.”
Zakharov glances at Cujo. Some silent confirmation passes between them. Possibly they visited Krystiyan’s house with no answer, or they’ve been calling him.
“Where is Adrik Petrov?” Zakharov demands.
