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He doesn’t deny it, which somehow makes everything worse. He just uses the same dispassionate tone and says, “Your mother. Tell me about her.”
I don’t want to talk about my mother with this man. I don’t want to share anything personal with someone who’s holding me prisoner, but there’s something in his voice, a gentleness that wasn’t there before, that makes me answer despite myself.
“She died three years ago. Cancer.”
“What kind of cancer?”
“Stomach. It took two years to kill her, and every day of those two years was agony.” Tears sting my eyes, and I blink them back furiously. I won’t cry in front of him. I won’t give him the satisfaction.
“You took care of her.”
It’s not a question, especially since he knows my answer from the last round of questions, but I nod anyway. “Someone had to. My father certainly wasn’t going to do it.”
“Where is your father now?”
I tense, gnashing my teeth as instinctive anger floods me, directed purely at my father. “Living his best life with his new family. He has money, you know. Plenty of money. He just didn’t want to spend it on us.”
He’s quiet for a moment, processing this information. “The medical bills.”
“Twelve thousand dollars and counting. The insurance company decided three years after the fact that her pain medication wasn’t necessary.” I laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “Apparently, dying of cancer doesn’t qualify as sufficient justification for morphine.”
“So you work at the club to pay off debt that isn’t legally yours.” He summarizes my previous answer.
“It was my mother’s debt, which makes it mine.” I meet his stare directly, refusing to look away. “That’s what decent people do. They take care of the people they love, even after they’re gone.”
Something flickers across his face, too quickly for me to identify. Pain, maybe. Or recognition. “And Irina Volkov? You’re certain you’ve never heard that name before?”
I glare at him. “I’m certain. I would remember if I met someone who looked like me. I don’t know her and didn’t know she was a missing person until you told me.”
“Missing person.” He repeats the words slowly, like he’s testing how they sound. “Is that what you think she is?”
I let out a sound of frustration. “I don’t know what she is. I only know what you told me. She disappeared ten years ago with information that got your brother killed.”
“My brother.” His tone sharpens. “What do you think happened to my brother?”
The question feels like a trap, but I answer anyway. “How the fuck should I know? I’d guess he’s dead. I think someone killed him, and you blame this Irina woman for it.”
“And what do you think I plan to do when I find her?”
The temperature in the room seems to drop ten degrees. “I think you plan to kill her.” I shiver as I say the words.
He doesn’t confirm or deny it. He just watches me, and I realize I’m standing in a room with a man who’s killed before and will kill again. The knowledge sits in my stomach like a stone. “Are you going to kill me?” The question comes out softly.
He’s quiet for so long that I start to think he’s not going to answer. When he finally speaks, his voice is soft and controlled. “I’m going to decide what to do with you once I’m sure you’re not a threat.”
I want to rage at him, but fear keeps me more subservient. I sound meeker than I’d like when I say, “I’m not a threat to anyone. I serve drinks for a living.”
“People who serve drinks hear things. See things. Remember things.”
I moisten my dry lips. “I don’t know anything. I don’t listen to those kinds of things.”
His smile lacks genuine amusement. “Maybe, or maybe you deal in the kinds of things that get people killed.”
The words linger, and I press my back against the window, as far from him as I can get in the confines of the room. Desperation seizes me, and I remember from a self-defense class that I need to humanize myself to an attacker. He already knows everything about me, but I don’t know anything about him. “What’s your name?”
He doesn’t answer.
“If you’re going to hold me prisoner, the least you can do is tell me your name.”