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Her brown eyes are wide, taking me in, almost as if she’s surprised to see me. Which makes no sense sincesheknocked onmydoor.
And who the fuck is she, and how the fuck did she make her way here of all places?
I can almost guarantee this is a girl who has never ever stepped foot in somewhere like Greenleigh before today. A girl who’s probably never stepped foot outside of Mayfair or Chelsea or Knightsbridge or wherever her ivory tower is.
“I’m—I’m sorry for bothering you,” she says. She has a pleasantly husky voice, immaculate enunciation. “I’m looking for someone.”
For a moment, I just watch her, taking her measure. She’s not here to harm me, that much is obvious. Even if she was, she would pose no danger to me. She’s a little taller than me, but she’s a creature of indulgence and pleasure. All of her curves tell me this is a girl who’s never had to pick up tools and carve outthe space of her own existence in the world. This is a girl who sprung fully formed from a golden egg to step into a gold-paved world.
Whoever she’s looking for, she’s made a mistake in coming here.
“You’ve come to the wrong place,” I tell her.
My voice is firm, not harsh. I hold no hate for her; I just want her gone.
For a second, I think she’s going to obey the command hidden in my words and leave. She clearly wants to. But the despair that brought her here keeps her pinned in place.
“Iakov,” she blurts out. “Iakov Kavinski. Have you seen him?”
“Who?”
The name rings a bell, but only distantly. The faraway familiarity of a name you heard but never attached to an actual person. The girl swallows thickly, her throat shuddering. Her eyes have a gleaming sheen of tears in them. She shakes her head.
“Never mind,” she says, her husky voice crushed by defeat. “I’m sorry for bothering you.”
She’s about to turn away but my instinct pushes me to intervene. I can’t help it. Her despair, in this moment, reminds me of a younger Willow, a Willow with bruises and a heart full of fear, a Willow bleeding on the floor, realising nobody’s coming to help her.
“Are you in trouble?” I ask her.
“No,” she says, voice quavering. “I—I thinkhemight be.”
I look at this girl, this beautiful angelic creature of wealth and privilege, and the idea of her being worried for the wellbeing of amanseems so ridiculous I can’t help but laugh.
“If he’s a man, he’ll be fine. The world was built for those fuckers—they know how to survive it. Trust me.” I grin at her. Ihave shit to do, and this girl is done wasting my time. “Now run along, pretty thing. You don’t belong here.”
She turns, and she runs.
I close the door and lock it, and I turn my music back on, but I don’t go back to my milkshake or cigarette. My good mood has evaporated completely, replaced by a low thrum of tension vibrating through me.
How the fuck did this girl get my address? And who the fuck is Iakov Kavinski, and why does his name sound so familiar? Yanking my black notebook out of my pocket, I flick through the pages, scanning the cramped notes.
I almost miss the namePavel Kavinskiand have to flip back several pages to go back to it.
My notes under his name are short, incomplete scraps.
PAVEL KAVINSKI
Oligarch/dangerous
CHOKE occasional
Notable info: son Iakov Kavinski schoolmates with LFL.
“What the fuck,” I say out loud.
So Iakov Kavinski went to school with Luca Fletcher-Lowe. And now his girlfriend comes to my flat looking for him. And if she knows where I live, does that mean Iakov Kavinski does too? And if he does—
A prickling sensation crawls all the way up my spine. My instinct takes over, cold and hard and sharp and urgent.
