Page 8

The spray hits my back. My front. My face. My arms. Moving around is pointless, because he uses the neck noose to shift me the way he wants me regardless. Eventually, he deems me clean enough, and that’s when he turns me, rearranges my arms, undoes the handcuffs, positions me around a large metal pole, and redoes the handcuffs. Hugging a metal pole with a blindfold on isn’t exactly fun, but it’s also not so bad. I hear him head inside, his footfalls heading back the way we exited, the slithering sound of the hose dragging along behind him. Then I hear the same whooshing noises—he’s clearly spraying out the inside of my terrible cave-room. I hope he leaves the unopened crackers and cheese in there. Maybe now that it’s cleaner in there, I’ll be able to choke them down.

My belly growls in approval.

When you’re getting six or seven hundred calories a day, you really can’t afford to miss any of them. Puking up this morning’s breakfast didn’t help much with my calorie deficit. While he’s in there, I manage to shift my blindfold enough to look around. We’re out in the country—I can’t even see a neighbor. Pastures with small copses of pine and elm trees as far as I can turn—and the room I’ve been kept in is inside a very small, very run-down hut. It looks like a shepherd’s cottage. There’s a small chimney on top, and there’s a run-down split rail fence circling part of the yard.

The fact that it has water feels a bit like a miracle, but other than the spigot with the attached hose, we could be standing in this same spot a hundred years ago, right down to the wash basin and washboard with the clothesline strung up next to it. The string’s broken and dangling, but someone lived here at some point.

The state of this place is both good and bad. My captors clearly aren’t staying onsite. They may not even have Wi-Fi and monitoring set up, but there’s also no one out here to hear me or see me and offer help.

When I hear footsteps shifting back in my direction, I use the pole to shove my blindfold back down, and I lean my head against it.

Super tired captive. Nothing to see here.

“You get back inside,” he says in Russian.

I rattle my hands against the pole as loudly as I can, not willing to admit that I understand what he said, but answering his unasked demand.

He’s rough undoing my handcuffs, like he’s worried that if he’s nice, I’ll make a break for it. I’m not that stupid. I have no money, no shoes, and no idea where I am or where I might go. Running now, when he’s holding a rope around my neck and standing right next to me? That’s something a particularly stupid horse might do.

I’m not quite that dumb.

He’s barely marched me back to the cell and removed my blindfold when I hear the sound of a vehicle outside, idling near the hut. It’s probably parking. The tension in the lines of the face of the man who has been bringing me food tells me it’s his boss.

Sure enough, when the newcomer finally clomps his way through the door, it’s Leonid.

“Why’s the room wet?” He’s glaring, but not at me, and he’s using Russian, presumably because he’s not addressing me.

“She got sick or something,” the blond man says in Russian. “The room smelled really bad.”

Leonid arches one eyebrow. “You’re sick?”

I shrug.

“I know your name, girl. We looked up the number that your friend dialed, and it’s owned by an Adriana Strelkova. You must be Mirdza’s sister.”

“So?”

“Why did she call you instead of Kristiana?”

I don’t answer.

“I’m going to send a message to Mirdza, telling her that if she values your life, she’ll—”

Now I’m laughing.

“What?” Leonid frowns.

“That’s a huge waste of time. She called me because she doesn’t value my life,” I say. “I just look like Kris. Even though I’m her sister, trust me. She won’t care what happens to me.”

It’s a bluff, but I need him to believe it. Because if Mirdza trades her life for mine now, then all this will have been a complete waste. My one good act will have been wasted.

Leonid studies my face as if he’s evaluating my words.

“In a million years, Mirdza never thought I’d be selfless enough to show up. But she’d also never trade me for Kristiana. Trust me. I’m not the leverage you want.”

Leonid paces, which can’t be very satisfying in such a small room.

“Tell me why you want Kris, and I can help you figure out how to get what you really want.” I only allow myself a half smile. I’m sitting in the corner of a concrete room, sopping wet—I don’t have a lot of options in terms of pressuring this man, but a knowing smile sometimes helps. “You want her fiancé? Does he owe you money? Or do you have some kind of grudge against him?”