Page 72 of Trust

But that was never an option. He’d have brought it up, one way or another. Maybe it’s good that we’re getting it out of the way now instead of when I go back.

“I’m sorry,” I say softly, in lieu of actually answering the question. “I didn’t take anything of yours. I promise.”

“You’d better not have,” Adam mutters. “Just as long as you didn’t do something stupid like tell Ilya Zima where I live.”

“Of course not,” I lie, fighting to remember how to breathe.

There’s a long pause, and I brace myself for another reprimand.

Finally, Adam huffs softly. “I miss you, babe. The house is a mess without you, and I’m eating so much worse without you taking care of me.”

I swallow my sigh of relief. I don’t know why Adam is willing to drop it so easily, but I’m not going to look a gift horse in the mouth.

“I miss you, too.” I can only imagine the condition of the place. He’s messy at the best of times, and I’ve never understood how one grown man can create so much chaos in a relatively small space. “I’ll be back soon.”

I don’t want to be.

The realization hits me hard, and I’m glad he can’t see the look on my face.

“I should go,” I say. “I need to get back to work.”

“Yeah. The sooner you find some real dirt, the sooner you can come back to me.” Adam ends the call.

I sag down into the nearby chair, the stress making my hands shake. I realize I’m still clutching the envelope of tips, and I tuck it into my cello case, not bothering to count it — not even wanting to count it, because I feel too guilty about accepting it to begin with. Ilya’s already paying me too much.

I’m lost in thought when I hear the door open, and I jump to my feet when I see Ilya at the entrance to the break room.

“Ily…” My voice trails off.

Ilya’s expression is dark and murderous. His usually neatly combed hair is disheveled, and the collar of his shirt is in disarray. He’s no longer wearing his jacket, either, just the shirt and slacks.

And a pair of leather gloves he hadn’t been wearing before.

Ilya notices me and inhales sharply. “Mishka! Why are you here? You were playing.”

I’m momentarily frozen, but I shake it off. “I had to stop for the night,” I tell him.

Shit.

Did he hear me? Does he have this office bugged? My heart beats in triple time.

He’s going to kill me.

“I’m sorry,” I add, my voice quivering. “But are you okay?”

If I pretend everything is normal, maybe I can pretend he misunderstood. I was calling a friend, or, or…

Ilya stares at me, his frow burrowing. “You had to stop for the night? What time is it?” He reaches for his pocket, but his hands are shaking. The phone clatters to the floor.

Ilya lets out a loud curse in Russian.

I hurry forward, grabbing his phone and offering it to him. “Here,” I say, and concern colors my voice. “Are you… What happened?”

My mouth is dry.

I should stop before I make things worse.

But I could find out something important.