Page 93 of Hunt Me, Daddy

Outside the glass, he stood for one second with his hand still on the frame, looking down at me like he knew exactly what I was thinking.

He didn’t, not exactly. I was thinking that if he was the watcher, I was going to destroy him. I was thinking that if he wasn’t, I might still destroy him just on principle. I was thinking about his hand under my chin. His voice in my ear.

And his promise of consequences.

I sat back against the leather seat and felt the first real smile of the morning touch my mouth.

Fine.

Let him try.

CHAPTER 17

Kit

Ivan Morozov’s apartment looked exactly like I expected it to look and nothing like I wanted it to and that annoyed me.

I wanted clutter—evidence, some small humanizing defect I could hold up against him like a weapon. A crooked stack of mail, dishes in the sink, a sweater thrown over the back of a chair. Something dumb and ordinary and slightly careless like a fridge magnet, a dying plant, maybe even an ugly mug from a conference with a bad acronym. Anything to prove he wasn’t lethal and dangerous but just a regular person.

Instead, his apartment was sparse, expensive, and meticulous. It was all dark wood, pale walls, clean lines, and furniture that probably had a name in Italian. There were no photographs or throw pillows or visible books except for a narrow shelf of technical references, Russian literature, and three chess books arranged by height in a way that made me want to rotate the middle one just to see if he noticed.

The main room had a dining table that looked like no one had ever eaten a casual meal at it, a couch that looked comfortable but not inviting, and, against the far wall and what I was most interested in, three monitors running all at the same time. I stopped two steps inside and stared at the screens.

“Do you ever turn them off?” I asked.

“No.”

“Healthy.”

“Useful.”

“That’s usually what unhealthy people call unhealthy things.”

Ivan closed the door behind me. The lock clicked, followed by two additional mechanisms engaging deeper in the frame. I heard them because I had spent years teaching myself to hear things like it.

He noticed me noticing.

“You can leave at any time,” he said.

I turned to look at him. He stood with my bag in one hand and his dark coat still on, pale blue eyes steady behind his glasses. He didn’t smirk or make any theatrical attempt to reassure me.

I believed him, which was inconvenient.

“Can I?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“Without being followed?”

His expression did not change.

I smiled without warmth. “Right. That was the wrong question.”

“It was an incomplete one.”

“You’re a joy.”

“I’ve been told.”