Page 22 of Kept in the Dark

Still, there are two possible outcomes—either I killed Kyle, or I did not. In the first scenario, Nicole watched me kill him, so I cannot simply allow her to walk free. In the second, I saved her from an attack, but Kyle becomes my loose end. He might be Felix’s man. Or, there is always a chance he says the wrong thing to the wrong person and they identify me as a person of interest when Viktor Volkevich ends up dead.

Plan for the worst, hope for the best. I need to lie low until I can discover whether Kyle is alive.

But what do I do with Nicole?

I cannot believe that I brought her with me. I cannot believe I did not just leave her in that maze. I cannot believe I am considering continuing to protect her.

It is tempting to blame her for my mistakes—she is the exact sort of distraction I try to avoid—but it is not her fault. It is mine. The only good that comes of a mistake is the opportunity to learn from it, and I cannot do that if I do not accept responsibility.

That does not change the fact that she remains a problem for me now.

There is one way I normally deal with problems. A knife to the throat or a bullet to the brain are both merciful deaths—quick but messy.

That particular line of thought terminates at a single, inconvenient conclusion: I will not kill this woman.

The reasons I should far outnumber the arguments in her favor. But somehow, she has become…importantto me. Her innocence will make her difficult to deal with, as will the fact that she is clearly very smart. But I am drawn to her—why else would I have acted so rashly?—and even worse still, I think I mightlikeher.

No good will come of this, only more problems. I know this.

“Thank you for doing that, Lev. For getting us out of that maze. For saving me. That was… um, thank you.”

At her wavering voice, I brace myself for tears. In my experience, women always cry eventually. But when I glance over, I see she is staring at her knees and rubbing the center of her chest absently. When she realizes I am looking, she stops abruptly and twists her hands together in her lap, like she has been caught at something.

“Why did you do it?” she asks after a moment, when it becomes clear I will not respond to her softly spoken, heartfelt thanks.

“What?”

“Save me. It would have been easier for you to get out alone. Why save a person who’s basically a stranger?”

I let out a longer sigh than I mean to, but it is a damn good question. “I do not know,” I admit through my teeth.

I do not have the energy to try to handle her emotions for her—I can barely handle my own—and there is too much fog in my brain to think of a better excuse. The pain in my side is subsiding, but it is still somewhat distracting.

Interestingly, the terrible answer makes her relax a fraction. The shift in her body language is minute, no more than a slight rounding of her shoulders and a loosening of her jaw. I do not understand this response, and it makes me scowl.

She is… so calm. Perhaps I was too hasty to assume she is innocent—the only people this calm in the middle of this much danger are used to it becausetheyare dangerous people. Innocents always lament their terrible luck. They demand to be returned to the safety of their homes. They cower, make threats, and sometimes get violent in self-defense. Nicole does none of that; she sits silently with a distant look and pensive frown.

“I hope everyone’s okay. Do you know what happened?” she asks after a moment. “Like, who was shooting?”

“Why have you not asked me to take you home?” I fire back, answering her question with my own.

“I… what if…” she sucks in a breath and it breaks in the back of her throat, a sound similar to a choked sob. “I’m scared that Kyle knows where I live.”

All the muscles in my arms tense at the same time, making my shoulders bunch and my jaw flex. The leather covering the steering wheel squeaks under the force of my grip.

He did something to her—something to make her so afraid she would not go home for fear that he might be there. If I ever see him again, I will ensure his death is slow.

“If he is alive, he could easily find out,” I caution her.

The deepening of her anxious frown makes me feel strangely churlish, but it does no good to ignore the truth when the stakes are this high.

She pulls her lower lip into her mouth and chews at the inside of it. “If?” she repeats. “Do you think you killed him?”

Either she is an exceptional actress, or her response is genuine. It would be difficult for anyone hardened by the life we lead to recreate the mixture of tentative hope and guilt in her expression.

“I do not know.” I wish I could stop saying that.

What do I do?