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Aside from a stash of pepper spray designed to look like ballpoint pens, there was nothing to link Sophia to Kusma Petrova or Black Cell. I moved to the couch and checked under the frame, under the cushions, under the coffee table and the easy chair.
Nothing, nada.
Finally, I made my way up to her bedroom, figuring that if Sophia was like every other woman I’d been with, I still had a good twenty minutes before the water turned off.
Her room smelled like her. Something like coconut that made me want to go into the bathroom and taste every inch of her body.
I checked under the mattress, inhaling her scent as I did. Then the closet, which surprisingly didn’t take long.
Sophia Banks owned six full outfits, two pairs of sensible shoes, plus jogging shoes. That’s it. I then made my way to the armoire. My search was momentarily halted by the strings of lacy underwear in her top drawer. Sexy as hell. Her bras, on the other hand, were dingy cotton Hanes, made for comfort—and comfort only. I grinned, finding this startling contradiction rather cute.
Focus.
Fisting my hands on my hips, I walked to the loft railing and looked down, surveying the house. Sophia was hiding something, of that I was certain.
Why can’t I find it?
Then a light bulb went off.
The shed.The place no one would think to look—especially in this climate.
The wind stung my cheeks as I stepped outside. Dawn had yet to break through the dark, billowing clouds overhead, though there was just enough light to see where I was going. Flurries drifted from the sky as I paused to look around.
I’d already checked for tracks in the snow, multiple times overnight, but checked again to be safe. Whoever ambushed us hadn’t come back, but something told me they would—and soon.
The shed was nothing fancy. A small single room with stacks of chopped wood. A few garden tools loomed in the corner, leaning against a generator that looked like it hadn’t been maintained in years. In the corner was a rusty old lawnmower with a flat tire.
My eyes narrowed.
After a quick glance over my shoulder, I stepped over the stacks of wood and studied the mower. I lifted the rusty hood. A weatherproof black bag was taped underneath it.
Bingo.
I tucked the bag under my arm, closed the hood, and jogged back into the house. Sophia was still in the shower.
Using my pocketknife, I sliced open the top of the bag and dumped the contents onto the kitchen counter:
Four stacks of hundred-dollar bills, totaling forty thousand dollars.
Three credit cards
One Social Security card
One passport
One driver’s license
The name on each:
Aleks Petrova
Folded neatly underneath it all was a birth certificate that read:
Aleks Petrova
Born: Moscow, Russia
Mother: Yulia Tisevich
