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“Nikita—”
She shakes her head, gesturing back toward the screen. “Not important right now. And yesterday… That was when the director confronted me about the toolbox in my locker.”
“Are you suggesting the director knew exactly what was going on and deleted the footage to cover his tracks?”
Nikita nods. “Too much of a coincidence, don’t you think? The director is one hundred percent in on whatever’s going on. Is there a way to recover the footage?”
My brain goes into overdrive. “Maybe we don’t need it.”
“I don’t follow.”
“We have the dates. We know who’s involved. I think we have enough to confront that so-called friend of yours.”
“But without any proof—”
“It’s called a bluff. Do you know where she lives?”
Nikita gives me a worried glance. “We’re not going to whack her or something, right?”
“Not unless you want me to.”
“Not funny.”
I take her hand and lightly squeeze her fingers. “We’re not going to do anything to her, Nikita. We’re just… going to apply a bit of pressure. Get her talking.”
“Are you sure?”
I flash a grin. “Trust me. I’m a professional.”
Chapter 27
Nikita
The only reason I know where Kseniya lives is because she once invited me over for a movie night with a bunch of her friends. Not ballerinas, but a troop of improvisational jazz dancers. They were nice, from what I remember, but they were a rowdy bunch and I don't remember staying for very long. I'm pretty sure Inessa was blowing up my phone asking me where the hell I was so late, so I made up an excuse to leave and ducked out.
The outside of the building is nothing to write home about. Just your standard gray concrete with neatly lined windows, stacked row upon row for about ten floors into the sky. The neighborhood is unassuming, complete with a little deli around the corner and a small kiddie park just across the street. Easily forgettable. Easily forgotten. Kind of like Kseniya herself.
Getting into the building is easy enough. Leo and I slip in without too much hassle as a group of young twenty-somethings leave the building, whooping and walloping about their Friday night activities. One of them even holds the door open for us, believing we live in the building. There's no elevator, so the winding climb up the stairs to the fifth floor admittedly gets my heart pumping.
As we approach Kseniya’s apartment door, my hands begin to feel clammy and cold. I tried to play out the situation in my head during our drive over, but now that I'm so close to confronting her about what she's done, my mind is blank and I can't seem to find my courage. There are so many things I want to ask her. Did she really do it? Why did she do it? I guess there's really only one way to find out, and that means ripping off the Band-Aid, no matter how painful that might be.
Before I knock on the door, Leo gently takes my hand. “For the first little bit, I want you to let me do the talking.”
“Why?”
“It's kind of my specialty. I want you to know the man you see in there… It's not who I am, just who I have to pretend to be.”
I reach up and caress his cheek. “I know.” And then, softer, “I know who you are, Leo.”
I can almost read his mind. He's concerned about me seeing him in action. Getting to see this new facet of himself. But I've already given him my heart, whether he knows it or not. I never understood the concept of a ride or die until I met him.
I will take all his good and his bad, and I will love every bit of him anyway.
Leo steps forward. He doesn't bother knocking. That would ruin our element of surprise. Instead, he leans back and throws a hard front kick, the heel of his shoe driving into the doorknob with enough force to send the door swinging open.
Inside, a pathetic yelp of a man, the director himself. “Good Lord!”
“What's going on?” Kseniya cries.
