Page 127 of Cruel Demands

I stop with one arm still inside my coat. “What guy?”

“I do not know. Tall. Russian. Looked expensive and unfriendly.”

“That describes most of the men I work with. You’ll have to be more specific. Did he give a name?”

“He did not say.”

I close the door behind me. “What did he say?”

“He asked whether Taylor Hayes lived here.”

My stomach tightens. “What did you tell him?”

“That she moved to Siberia.”

“Anya.”

“What? I did not tell him anything.”

“Did you let him inside?”

She looks offended. “Obviously not.”

“What else did he ask?”

“When you usually get home. Whether you still work for Mikhail Korolev.” I pull my purse off my coat, untangling it from the arm that it’s now trapped in. The cereal box crinkles in Anya’s hand, and she watches me with confused amusement, her lips pushed up into her nose and her eyebrows scrunched together. “Taylor?”

I pull the folder out of my purse and flip through the photos. I fold it so that she can’t see herself in it and show her just the man I recognized from the photographs of Orlov. “Is this him?”

“I…think so? This is a terrible photo.”

I look toward the narrow hallway leading to our bedrooms, a yawning pit growing in my stomach. “Did he leave?”

“Eventually.”

“You’re sure?”

“I mean, I did not watch him go. What is wrong with you?”

I look around, my heart in my throat. The apartment looks normal. The sofa cushions are where they belong. Anya’s shoes are scattered near the radiator. Two mugs sit in the sink because neither of us ever washes one immediately after using it.

Nothing is out of place. Then I notice my bedroom door. I left it closed this morning, but it’s open now. The apartment isn’t perfectly flat. Sometimes when you close the front door, the air pops the bedroom door open. That’s what I tell the thrumming in my heart as I press my palm to my chest and rub in circles.

I walk down the hallway and push the door wider. My room has been searched. Not robbed. Searched. My desk drawers have been pulled out and emptied across the floor. The mattress sits crooked on the frame. Books have been shaken open and discarded. Clothes spill from the wardrobe. My laptop is still on the desk. The money hidden beneath my socks is still there.

A photograph of my parents that had been tucked into the corner of my mirror is lying face down beside the bed. I pick it up. Someone wanted information.

Behind me, Anya inhales sharply. “That man did this?”

“I don’t know.”

“You do know.”

My phone is already in my hand. I call Mikhail.

He answers immediately. “What happened?”

“Someone came to my apartment looking for me. He asked Anya if I still worked for you. He knew my name. He knew your name. He searched my room.” I realize that while I started the phone call calmly, halfway through I started wailing.