Page 99 of Maksim

Bright orange fish swim around below my feet as I walk over a small bridge to the front door, my steps determined.

I pound my fist on the front door then use the knocker when no one answers after a few seconds. Heat radiates from my ears, my teeth grind, but if I’m honest, the anger is a welcome distraction from fear.

“Hello!” I bang again. “I’m here for Anya!”

Gradually, as a minute goes by without an answer, my anger begins to wane. I listen carefully for anything inside, and when I don’t hear a peep, the fear returns.

Maksim was almost certain the hit wasn’t placed on my family. That it was placed on us.

What if…?

I try the door and find it unlocked. Is that a bad sign or good?

“Anya?” I call, my voice much softer than before as I stick my head inside. I still don’t get a response.

What if I got the address wrong?

I step back outside and look for evidence of Anya being here. Tanner’s truck or that motorcycle she talked about. She said he got it from his uncle, and this could very well be a wealthy uncle’s home.

Toeing inside, I scan the entryway, searching for her white purse with the chain strap she carries. Nowhere.

“Anya, I’m here!”

I listen carefully.

Nothing.

Goosebumps raise on my arms that I try to ignore but can’t. Something is telling me to walk out the door. Drive away.

But I can’t. I could never do that to Anya.

I pull out my phone and turn it on, but when I try to call Maksim, there’s no service. Fuck.

I should step outside. Find service. She called me from here, so this must just be a dead spot. This must be…

Something tiny and green catches my eye in the next room as I cautiously move that way, and when I spot it, I can’t stop moving. More tiny green balls appear, scattered throughout this sitting area.

My subconscious knows what it is; it’s the only explanation as to why my stomach balls into a knot then stuffs itself up into my throat. My brain, on the other hand, is slower to process, searching through memories until finally I see the band of beads that had been wrapped around Anya’s wrist this afternoon.

My lips part with what would be a gasp if my lungs were working.

I hurry several steps that way but force myself to stop and look at the phone that still doesn’t have service. It can’t be a coincidence. Something—or someone—is blocking the reception.

“Anya!” I call despite my better judgment as I hurry into the hallway.

“Elira,” Anya cries, snapping my head toward the kitchen.

I dart that way, letting the phone fall through my fingers. As soon as I pass through the doorway, I halt at the sight of Anya’s trembling form tied to a kitchen chair with a woman pointing a gun at her head.

Tanner lies in a pool of blood at her feet, the chair he’s tied to tipped over with him. His eyes are closed, but there’s so much blood around his head that there must be a bullet in the back of it. He’s dead.

“I’m so sorry,” Anya cries, lowering her eyes as a sob overtakes her. “They made me do it.”

They.

My attention turns to the last person in the room as she walks toward me, no weapon, no fear. She doesn’t even wear a smirk on her Botoxed face. She looks like a woman out for revenge who’s far too angry to enjoy it.

Her brown hair is swept over her shoulders and perfect while the woman with the gun has hers high in a ponytail. She wears black slacks and a white, loose-sleeved blouse, an outfit familiar to me. I threw out several just like it.