Page 27 of The Glass Empire
Something I'm not ready to lose.
I close my eyes and see her face. Brown eyes, steady hands, a smile like a crack in a stone wall.
She reminds me of someone. I can't figure out who.
Maybe she just reminds me of the person I want to be.
7
The Warehouse
Monika
The call comes at 2:47 AM.
I'm not sleeping. I haven't been sleeping well since I called the number on the card, since I heard Aleksander's voice on the other end of the line, since I said the wordsyesandI'll do itandpart-time, cash, no questions. Since I became something other than a waitress in a diner.
Since I became his.
The phone is a burner—his, not mine. He gave it to me two days ago, sliding it across the counter wrapped in a napkin like it was something shameful.For work, he said.Keep it on you. Answer when I call.
It buzzes against the wood of my nightstand, a harsh vibration that cuts through the dark. I answer on the second buzz.
"Yes."
"There's a warehouse on Grant Street." His voice is low, calm, the same voice he uses when he orders coffee. "One of my men needs attention. Nothing life-threatening, but he's bleeding and he won't go to a hospital. Can you handle it?"
I'm already out of bed, reaching for my jeans. "What happened?"
"A disagreement. He lost."
"Give me the address."
He gives it. I write it on my palm with a pen that's been on my nightstand for three weeks, the ink smearing against my skin. I hang up before he can say anything else—before he can tell me to be careful, before he can warn me about what I'm about to see.
I already know I'm about to see something I don't want to see.
That's why he called me.
The warehouse is on the edge of the city, where the streets narrow and the streetlights stop working and the buildings look like they've been abandoned for years. Some of them have. Some of them haven't. It's hard to tell the difference in the dark.
The address takes me to a chain-link fence with a gate that swings open when I push it. No lock. No guard. Just the gate and the gravel and the smell of the river, somewhere close, somewhere rotting.
The warehouse is brick, three stories, windows boarded up. A single light burns somewhere inside, casting a sickly yellow glow through the gaps in the boards. I park my car—an old Civic, the only thing I could afford—and sit for a moment with my hands on the steering wheel, listening to the engine tick as it cools.
I should have brought my kit. I have a kit now—real supplies, things Aleksander bought for me after the second timeI stitched one of his men. Gauze, antiseptic, actual surgical thread. Needles that aren't from my coat pocket. It sits in a bag on the passenger seat, black canvas, nondescript. Like everything else in this life.
I grab the bag and walk to the door.
It opens before I knock. A man I don't recognize—broad, bald, wearing a jacket that doesn't quite hide the bulge of a shoulder holster—looks down at me with flat eyes.
"You the medic?"
"I'm the medic."
He steps aside. I walk in.
The smell hits me first.
