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"Fuck," I mutter, dragging a hand through my hair.
The shower's still running. Too long for just washing up. One thing I know about women is the difference between showering and hiding.
I turn up the volume on some cookery competition. The judges are yelling about undercooked fish. I stare at the screen without seeing it, the glass dangling from my fingers.
I should be planning. Making calls. Finding Jessica before Ivan can hurt her. But all I can think about is Evelyn behind that door, shoulders shaking, trying to muffle her sobs so I won't hear.
It makes me feel fucking awful.
I've killed men without blinking. Tortured them without losing sleep. But the thought of Evelyn crying tears me apart inside.
When did I get so fucking soft?
I down the rest of the drink in one go, set the glass on the coffee table with more force than necessary. On the screen someone's crying over a collapsed soufflé. I change the channel.
The water finally shuts off. I strain to hear movement behind the door, wondering if she'll come out or stay hidden in there all night.
Not that I can blame her. Her sister's missing because of me. Because I couldn't keep my distance, couldn't leave her alone.
I pour another drink, hoping it might dull the unfamiliar ache in my chest. It doesn't.
I switch channels restlessly, my thumb pressing the button over and over. Sports. Reality show. Documentary about penguins. News.
I'm about to keep going when the CNN headline catches my eye: "RENOWNED CELLIST MISSING."
The remote freezes in my hand as the blonde reporter speaks into the camera, her face appropriately solemn.
"—whereabouts of acclaimed cellist Michael Chen remain unknown after he failed to appear for his performance with the New York Philharmonic last Saturday. Chen, 29, was last seen leaving his apartment in Manhattan three days ago. Police are asking anyone with information to?—"
"NO!"
The scream behind me is so raw I nearly drop the glass. I whip around to see Evelyn standing there, hair still wet from the shower, wearing the clothes I bought her. Her face has drained of all color, eyes fixed on the TV screen where they're showing a photo of the missing musician.
"Michael," she says, one hand covering her mouth. "Oh God, no."
I mute the TV, setting my drink down. "You know him?"
"He's my friend." Her voice breaks on the word. "We went to Juilliard together. We performed together last month at Carnegie Hall."
The pieces click together instantly in my mind. "Ivan."
Evelyn nods, her whole body trembling. "First Jessica, now Michael. He's going after everyone I care about." Her eyes lock with mine, wild with panic and rage. "He's doing this because of me."
I stand, moving toward her, but she backs away.
"Don't you see? This is how Ivan works. He doesn't just hurt you—he takes everything you love first. He makes you watch." Her voice rises with each word. "Michael has nothing to do with any of this! He's just a cellist. A brilliant musician who's never hurt anyone."
"Evelyn—"
"I need to call the police. I need to tell them?—"
"Tell them what?" I step closer, keeping my voice steady. "That a Russian mafia boss took your friend? That you know thisbecause you're currently being held by another mafia enforcer? Think about what you're saying."
She slams her fist against the wall. "I can't just do nothing! First Jessica, now Michael—who's next? How many people have to disappear before this stops?"
The tears she hid from me start flowing freely now, her shoulders shaking with the force of them.
"It's my fault," she chokes out. "All of this is my fault."