Page 32

“I…am going to vomit, shower, and maybe do it all again,” he declares before disappearing into his own room.

I shake my head as Z and I move toward the rest of the windows, throwing them all open despite the chill in the air. Fresh oxygen becomes more important than warmth when biological warfare has been declared in your living space.Minutes pass by, and the apartment still reeks even with the window open.

The sound of another door opening draws my attention. Oscar emerges from his room wearing clean clothes—dark jeans and a simple gray t-shirt that clings to his body.

"Four showers. Four, and I can still smell it."

“We all can,” Z groans.

A gust of wind finally sweeps through the apartment, carrying away some of the noxious fumes. I take my first full breath since walking in, mentally thanking whatever weather god decided to show us mercy.

“So,” I venture, settling onto the arm of the sofa, “are we going to talk about what happened with Ricky?”

“There’s really not much to say. He’s dead, and all we have is his burner phone as long as it survived the dumpster.” At the mention of the dumpster, Oz gags a little. “There wasn’t any time to search the apartment, but I highly doubt we’d have found anything. The place was ransacked. If there was anything to be found, it’s gone, and going back there isn’t an option.”

“So, were back to square one again and no closer to finding my brother or The Collector?”

“Not entirely square one,” Oscar says, his voice dropping to that calculated tone he uses when formulating a plan. “We know more than we did yesterday.”

Z crosses to the kitchen, opening the refrigerator. “Like what? That Ricky was a dead end who is now just...dead?” He pulls out a beer and pops the cap against the counter edge.

“We know someone wanted him silenced,” Oscar continues, moving to sit on the couch near me. “That means he knew something important.”

I pull my knees to my chest, trying to process everything. “But we don't know what that something was. It could have been anything.”

“We just have to keep digging. The burner phone might give us something," Oscar says, leaning forward. “If it doesn’t, we figure out our next steps. We’re going to find Luca, Vesper.”

“We better," I mutter. "I can't keep living like this, wondering if he's safe, if he's even still alive.”

Oscar's hand finds my knee, his touch gentle but firm. “We will, solnishko. I promise you that.”

The endearment makes something flutter in my chest despite the circumstances.

“We should rest. None of us has slept much the last few days.” Oscar continues, his thumb making small circles on my knee. “We might see something we’re missing with fresh eyes.”

I want to argue, to insist we keep working, but exhaustion is seeping into my bones. The emotional rollercoaster I’ve been on has left me drained. “Maybe you're right,” I concede.

“A few hours of sleep wouldn't hurt,” Z says, setting his beer down on the coffee table. He stretches his arms above his head, his shirt riding up to reveal a sliver of tattooed skin. “I'm going to see if Alex has made any progress with that phone before anything else.”

He walks over to where I'm perched on the arm of the sofa and leans down. His lips brush against mine in a soft, almost hesitant kiss. The gesture catches me off guard, but I don't pull away. His mouth lingers for just a moment, warm and surprisingly gentle, before he straightens up.

“Get some rest.” Z watches me before he turns and heads down the hallway toward Alex's room.

The apartment falls quiet except for the distant sound of traffic filtering through the open windows. Oscar's hand is still on my knee, his touch burning through the fabric of my jeans. “Is everything okay between you and my brother?” he finally asks, his voice carefully neutral.

I blink, caught off guard by the directness of the question. We hadn’t really gotten around to talking about the mechanics of how things would work. The three of us kind of just happened.

Oscar's thumb continues its slow circles on my knee. “You don’t have to tell me details. I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

“I am,” I insist. “Z and I have some things to work through.”

Oz nods, accepting my vague answer without pushing for more.

“Do you want to stay with me tonight?” I ask. “Considering your room might be classified as a toxic waste dump.”

“Not funny.”

“But also not wrong,” I fire back.