Page 39 of Sexting the Pakhan
I glance at Ruslan.
He’s watching me now. Not openly. Not like a man trying to scare me. But I feel it. The weight of his attention.
He doesn’t trust me.
Of course he doesn’t. To him, I’m not just a librarian who got caught in the wrong place. I’m a witness. A liability. Maybe even a suspect. He asked me about security footage seconds before men started shooting at him. For all I know, he thinks I had something to do with it.
My throat tightens. “I didn’t know,” I say.
His eyes move to mine. “Know what?”
“Anything. About you. About those men. About whatever was happening with that book.”
“I know.”
“No, you don’t.” My voice shakes, and I hate it. “You don’t know me. You don’t trust me. I can tell.”
He looks at me for a long moment, then says, “Trust is expensive.”
“That’s a horrible thing to say.”
“It’s true.”
I turn back to the window.
The road curves, and suddenly the sea appears beyond the trees, dark and restless under a gray sky. The sight should calm me. I love the sea. I love the sound of it, the smell of salt, the way it makes everything human feel smaller for a while.
Today it makes me feel farther from home.
The car turns through a high black gate.
My pulse jumps.
There’s a house beyond the gate, though house feels like the wrong word. It’s low and wide, built in dark stone and glass, sitting back from the road with the sea behind it. Not a mansion in the bright, ridiculous way rich people show off. Something quieter. More guarded. The kind of place you don’t find unless someone wants you to.
The gate closes behind us. The sound makes my skin prickle.
I look at Ruslan. “Am I kidnapped?”
He doesn’t answer immediately, which is not comforting.
“No,” he says at last.
“That took too long.”
His mouth tightens slightly. “You are not kidnapped.”
“Then can I leave?”
“Not safely.”
I stare at him. “You hear how insane this sounds, right?”
“Yes.”
“And you’re still saying it.”
“Yes.”
