Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 87695 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87695 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
“I was told they’re working in the city by a reliable source.”
“Absurd. That cannot possibly be true. Molchanie has not been in America in a very long time.”
“Do you think they would be capable of what I just saw in that video?”
He’s silent for a moment. Then he nods once. “Molchanie would be more than capable.”
“Tell me everything you know about them.”
“I already did.” Ruslan glares at me. “Not much else is publicly available. Molchanie has a very long track record of successful kills. They are ruthless, talented, and well-funded. If this is Molchanie’s doing—” He stops and shakes his head. “But it is impossible.”
I share a look with my father. He nods slightly and I decide to drop it. Clearly, Ruslan’s shaken, and that tells me more than any of his answers could. No part of me thinks he’s telling me the truth or sharing everything he knows.
But one thing’s obvious: Molchanie scares the shit out of him.
Ruslan isn’t the type of man who overreacts.
If he’s worried about this killer, then I’d better be too.
I’m thinking about the note on the drive home.
A part of me can understand why Alina wouldn’t want to tell me about it.
It definitely looks bad.
But I believe her when she says she doesn’t know where it came from.
Which is worse than if she did.
Someone broke into her apartment while we were asleep. We aren’t dead, nothing was taken, and apparently only that note was left behind. Whoever did it clearly didn’t mean us any harm.
At that point, anyway.
Things change though.
What will happen when Alina and I don’t get divorced? Whoever broke into Alina’s apartment won’t be happy about that. Clearly, they want us to split up, even though I have no idea why.
The note feels personal. It doesn’t seem like it’s about business. Otherwise, they’d go about it differently. Instead, it was a piece of paper and a question.
Who would go through all that?
And who’s got the skills to slip into Alina’s apartment without waking anyone or getting caught?
For all the shit I talk about her place, it’s actually relatively secure. High up, lots of cameras, decent locks on the door. Not good locks—but enough to slow someone down.
Whoever got in has serious training.
I park out in front of my house and head inside. I’m distracted as I put my keys down on the island. Alina must be upstairs in bed. It’s past one in the morning and I’m exhausted from dealing with her annoyed father. Although he toned everything down after I mentioned Molchanie.
I almost don’t notice the back door.
I freeze and stare. My heart rate doubles. It’s fully closed and the handle is locked.
But the bolt is undone.
I know for a fact that it’s always shut.
Slowly, I walk toward the steps, listening and on high alert. I’m probably reading too much into this. Alina could’ve gone outside. I might’ve forgotten to shut it for once.
I go straight to the hall bathroom and find the pistol I keep hidden under the sink. Then I go from room to room, checking everything. I make sure there’s nobody hiding and nothing’s been disturbed. Everything looks good until I make it to Alina’s walk-in closet.
She unpacked more. Dresses are hanging on the racks. I shove them aside, making some noise as I look behind, but there’s nothing. Paranoia and worry drive me.
If someone broke into my house, that means nowhere is safe.
“Seamus? What’s going on?”
I turn, gun raised. Alina’s standing in the doorway. She looks like she was just sleeping, her eyes heavy, but she quickly takes a step back when there’s a gun pointed at her face.
I lower it to the floor. “Nothing. Everything’s okay.”
“Why do you have a gun?”
“I was just checking things out.”
“In my closet?”
“It’s nothing. Go back to sleep.”
She doesn’t move. “Talk to me. What’s happening?”
I curse to myself. This wasn’t supposed to happen. I should have my shit together. I can’t be jumping at shadows.
But that video of the person in all black stabbing a burning man repeatedly in the chest like it’s nothing won’t get out of my head.
“Did you use the back door earlier?”
She looks confused. “What do you mean?”
“The top bolt was left open.”
“I didn’t go out there.”
“Did you touch it? Maybe without thinking? Even just for a second.”
“No, I swear.” She’s frowning deeply. “What’s the matter?”
I shove the gun back into my waistband. There’s nobody else in the house. I start pacing back and forth, thinking hard. “Did you hear anything? See anything unusual?”
“No, I swear. I’ve just been unpacking, then I went to bed like an hour ago.” She hugs herself, rubbing her upper arms. “If this is about the note—”
“Why didn’t you just tell me about it?” I surprise myself by turning on her. I’m angry and I don’t even know why. This woman is barely my wife. She doesn’t owe me anything. But I’m angry anyway.