Once inside, I sit down on the cool pink tile floor and catch my breath. The bathroom seems surreal after living at Gabriel’s place. I’m keenly aware of just how tinyit is, with barely enoughspace for the tub, the sink, and the toilet. The whole thing would fit right into the en suite shower at Gabriel’s, with room to spare.
I notice other details—the cracked tiles, the perpetually dripping faucet, the mildew in the corners. The cheap, tropical-themed shower curtain I’d bought at a bodega for six dollars.
Home, except it doesn’t feel like home anymore. I haven’t been at Gabriel’s for even a full week, and already the life I used to live feels strange, alien.
After several minutes, I stand and move to the sink, splashing cold water on my face as I try to steady my breathing. The reflection in the mirror stares back—pale, wild-eyed, terrified.
What am I doing here?
I need clothes, money. I remember I still have my old iPhone, the one I never turned in when I upgraded. I can’t call anyone with it, but it still has apps I can use to help me with whatever my next move is. And, most importantly, Gabriel can’t track it.
I have to disappear.
Rain patters harder and harder on the window, another rumble of thunder sounding, a flash of lightning illuminating the room.
Months. That’s how long Gabriel had said his plan had been in the works. Months. Had he been spying on me? Why?
My hands are still shaking when I dry my face.I crack open the bathroom door and peer into the hallway.
Empty.
The apartment is silent, aside from the familiar sounds of pipes groaning, the upstairs neighbor’s TV, and traffic from the street below.
I slip into the bedroom.
My old mattress sits on the floor, the sheets tangled. My closet doors are open, just as I left them. I pull open the drawers to my dresser and start grabbing things, shoving them into the little space left in the duffel bag.
I’m reaching for the drawer that contains my old phone when I hear voices.
Male. Low. Coming from the living room.
I freeze.
“Fucking ridiculous, man. Three days sitting in this dump.”
“Boss says we wait; we wait.”
Russian accents.
Shit.
“For what? She’s been gone a week. She’s not coming back here any time soon.”
“You want to tell Kolya that? Be my guest. I’m sure he’d love to hear your input.”
My blood turns to ice.
Kolya.
I edge toward the bedroom door, my heart hammering. Through the crack, I can see them.
Two men. Both big, both armed with guns holstered at their hips, visible under their jackets. One is leaning against my kitchen counter, eating from my box of Kashi. The other’s sittingon my couch, his feet on my cheap Ikea coffee table, scrolling through his phone.
“I’m just saying,” the one on the couch continues, “this is a waste of time. If Moretti’s got her, she’s locked down tight. She’s not going to just waltz back into her old apartment—he wouldn’t let her.”
“Stranger things have happened.”
“Yeah, well, I got better shit to do than babysit some rundown apartment in fucking Bushwick.”