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But the words die out as it hits me that there’s been exactly one woman who has my insignia on her, and it’s impossible that anyone would ever see that mark unless something truly horrible happened to her.
Something like a sex trafficking ring.
I feel the urge to sit down, but I already am sitting down. I stand up, stare down at my phone as Janson leans forward to see the screen.
It vibrates. A notification pops up on my screen, letting me know I have a new image.
I stare at the notification as my brain begins to pulse again, as every fucking demon I’ve struggled to bury the last six years with only minimal success rear their ugly heads.
As the curse sings through my blood.
As the entire glass citadel I’ve built around me shatters because this one thing—this one thing— was my only salvation in my unavoidable death.
Janson looks up to me, waiting for me to do something. When I don’t, he reaches out.
He taps my screen.
And there, in full color, looking pale and more frustrated than scared but confused and uncomfortable if nothing else, is Analiese Lombardo in a hospital gown.
Fuck me.
Fuck.
Me.
“Holy shit,” Janson whistles.
On the other end of the line, Sasha says, “So you do know her, then?”
I hate planes. It’s just one of those things. the first one I was ever on flew me halfway around the world, to an unknown blazing inferno where nothing made sense, not even the words spoken. Oh, I’d learned a little English, but the English I thought I knew couldn’t keep pace with my classmates, so I couldn’t even make friends. I had my little Russian community, and everything beyond was a scary, incomprehensible hell.
Planes give me that feeling to this day. It’s one of the reasons I sequester myself into my corporate building, wheeling and dealing from the office three floors below my apartment, barricading myself like I’m protecting myself when really, I just don’t want people thinking I’ll get on a plane— or go to Flagstaff by plane, train, or automobile— and it’s easier to hide that fact when I rarely go across the street.
Analiese Lombardo got me on a plane, though. Analiese and a handful of Xanax. It’s a well-appointed jet with more crew than passengers, a world away from the crowded double-decker that stank of sweat and ethnic cuisines better suited to open air, but still a plane. And still carrying me to what I can only assume is another scary, incomprehensible hell.
Orlando.
“Lacey Lombardo,” Kostya says several times with a shake of his head, and each time, an old anger boils up within me again, but I don’t correct him. I hated Lacey— the name, not the person. It sounds as much like a whore’s name now as it did then.
I don’t know why I wasn’t honest with Sasha about my relationship with Ana, why I didn’t just tell Benedetti to have Tony go pick up his sister, why I did this to myself now. The only explanation is I’m every bit as self-destructive now as I was six years ago, twelve years ago, my entire adult life. I just thought I was past it because I had this notion of a clock that ticked unremittingly down to zero but could not stop at another point, and so I was invincible.
Until now.
I don’t know what I’m doing here except plunging headfirst into my inevitable death.
It’s nearing midnight when we land in Orlando, but Sasha is waiting for us, lurking in the shadows, dressed in black from head to toe, his very complexion blending him into the night. I see him, though. Always have. It’s Kostya who curses when he calls for us from his hiding place.
We load into a luxury sedan and cruise through the streets, still alive with weekend revelers and families staying up too late on their Disney vacations, the interior silent because Kostya and Sasha never got along and my nerves are getting the better of me. I fish a tin from my pocket and pop it open, selecting a hydroxyzine for balance. Sasha quietly passes me a bottle of water, not that I really need it. I swallow the pill and go back to staring out the window, my thoughts a mash.
Perhaps I don’t even need to go to Flagstaff to die. Perhaps Analiese Lombardo is going to bring Flagstaff to me.
The building we’re taken to looks like it was once a corporate campus that’s been repurposed, although nothing around it has the same nine-to-five vibe. At this late hour, it’s just as alive as the city around it is, with loud voices coming from various rooms and plenty of people in civilian, militia, and medical garb scurrying by us. The wing Sasha leads us into is fairly quiet, though, and there’s an intrinsically homier feeling to it. Doors have handmade signs on them and doormats with clever phrases welcoming people and warning them off. A rainbow of curtains covers the sidelights, some with smeared handprints down low. People live here. Families. Children.
Not at the door Sasha stops at, though. It’s a simple mat, a white curtain, and an official plaque with only a room number and a small block reading GUEST below it. He knocks gently, and there are several long seconds before I hear one, two, three locks— a chain, a deadbolt, and a switch— and the door cracks open.
My breath stops.
Black curls. Dark chocolate eyes. Petite, upturned nose.