Page 34 of The Games of Madmen

Just like every fucking time I think of her, my mind transports me back to the moments before she left. I know Z’s mind lives there constantly. He’s not been the same since.

Like a masochist needing a sweet slice of pain, my eyes close and my thoughts drift back to the past I try so hard to forget.

Her.

The past is a fucking sadist.

Two years ago…

Crashing sounds penetrate my haze of sleep, jarring me awake.

What the fuck?

I jump from the bed and open the bedside table to slip out my Glock. Blinking the sleep out of my eyes, I whip my gaze around. The sheets lay in a crumpled mess on the floor and the bed is empty.

Where are they?

Rushing from the room, every muscle tightens beneath my skin, preparing for a fight. My breath comes out in a rush when I enter the living space and find no intruder, just my half-dressed brother tearing through the place like an insane fucking patient.

“Zahkar?” I bark, tossing the Glock on the counter and stopping a few feet from him.

“It’s all gone,” he snarls. “She took her clothes, her passport, her fucking everything. There’s nothing left of her.” He’s frantic, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he paces the floor.

I’m confused at first. My brain is in a fog like I’d been on a week’s bender.

But then his words sink in.

My heart begins a slow pound as I dart my eyes across the room searching for Alyona. She’s not here. She’s not fucking here.

“Where is Alyona?” I snap, panic rising up inside me. I join my brother’s hunt to search the apartment for her.

Running his hands over his head in a defeated gesture, he says, “She’s gone, man. She’s fucking gone.”

No.

Absolutely fucking not.

She. Is. Ours.

She can’t leave.

She wouldn’t fucking dare leave us.

“Fuck!” Zahkar roars. “Why did she leave?”

She wouldn’t leave the apartment. No fucking way. She wouldn’t leave him, me,us.

He’s holding a note in his grip, his eyes scanning over the paper as he reads, crystal clear with a sheen of…sorrow.

“What is that?” I growl, pointing to his hand. I don’t feel lucid right now, like I’ve not fully woken, and this is all a fucking nightmare.

He collapses to the couch. “I can’t fucking breathe. She’s stolen the air from my lungs. She’s killing me.”

His rambling is crazed and furious and full of despair.

“Zahkar, fucking speak to me. You’re not making sense.” I drop on my haunches in front of him and clutch his knees, desperate for his connection.

He holds the paper out to me and begins counting—one Mississippi…two Mississippi… Then, his arms fold across his chest as if to hold himself together. My hand actually fucking shakes as I straighten out the piece of paper he gave me and read it.