Page 26 of Maksim

“Damn, nice neighborhood.”

My grip on the photo tightens. “Is it?”

“You’ve never been?”

I shake my head and put the photo away. I think we’re going to leave it at that, but when a bus comes, the boy stops me from getting on the wrong one. He offers his assistance and chatters so much during the ride that I long for the apple lady.

But at 7:43 AM, according to the watch the woman at the bus station gave me, I finish the half-mile walk to stand in front of a cobblestone path and look up at a three-story house too big for two people.

Biting my cheek, I drop the photo on the cobblestone and start toward a bright red door. When I make it, I test the knob to find it locked, then I go to the garage. There’s a small gap in the bottom that I climb under to find only one car.

What if he isn’t even here?

My muscles stiffen at that thought, but I continue on to the door that is, again, locked. It takes me several tries before I finally find a back window unlocked, and I climb through as quietly as I can.

My eyes dart around the home as my heart picks up speed, adrenaline pouring into my blood.

I’m not afraid of being caught. Not even a little. This is too important to allow fear to blind me, so I save the consequences of my actions for a future concern. The only thing I fear now is James/Daniel being away, probably conning a new girl.

He has to die for that. He has to be stopped not only for me, but for the others who would’ve come after me.

I go to pull out the knife but think twice and take one from the kitchen instead. It couldn’t hurt to have two weapons.

I creep through the home, stopping at every doorway to scan the rooms.

My head whips toward noise coming from an open set of double doors just up the hall, and I tiptoe that way with the knife firmly in my grasp.

I peek my head in the doorway to see him.

Him.

Sitting at a desktop computer typing away on the same chat site he used to communicate with me. Typing to someone just as insignificant as I am.

Pain, so much worse than anger, hits me like a gut punch, and I have to cover a hand over my mouth to hold in a cry.

I’m wearing the dress I picked out just for him. The dress. The one I decided I’d wear when I met my fiancé in America and the same one I planned to wear on our wedding day.

That dress. I wore it for him then, and I’m wearing it for him now.

When I suck in through my nose, he startles and jerks to face me.

“What the fuck?” His eyes widen as he finds the knife in my hand. “Who the fuck are you?”

My lips part. “Who am I?” I sound too broken to be dangerous, and it shows when he allows his eyes to find my face instead of zeroing in on the knife.

His eyes narrow. “Elira?” With a shake of his head, he holds out his hands and sighs. “Elira, baby, how did you get here? I’ve been worried sick.”

I don’t respond. He looks nervous but keeps up with the bullshit.

“The guy we paid at the border said you never showed. I thought you chose not to come, I… I must’ve called you a hundred times.”

“Please stop,” I whisper, my lip trembling. It’s pathetic. I’m pathetic. “I didn’t come here to hear your lies. I came here to hear your truth.”

“My truth?” He opens and closes his mouth while his eyes keep flicking to the knife. “I don’t know what you mean.”

My grip on the knife tightens as a wave of anger finally cuts through the sadness, propelling me with bravery. “You know what I mean.”

His innocent expression finally fades, and he looks down at the knife. “How the hell did you find where I live?”