Page 90 of Hate You Most

“Oh,” laughed Viktoriya. “I found it in a gossip magazine… you should probably have that looked at or at least change your number soon.”

“And you called me pretending to be a reporter?”

“Yes.”

“That’s kind of… insane.”

Viktoriya rubbed her forehead. “I know.”

“Why?”

Viktoriya stared down at the laptop that was still sitting open on the bed, the photo of her destroyed car burned forever into her mind.

“Because I saw the pictures,” she said quietly. “Of your crash and of mine, and it looked exactly the same.” Viktoriya continued slowly, choosing her words carefully. “When my accident happened, I was told by the doctors that it was just bad luck. It was a late night drive, and it was in the pouring rain. I was in the wrong place at the wrong time.” Her voice tightened slightly. “But now there's been another crash and another. They've all been people from Russia, all with similar rumors surrounding them and their reputation. And all of us lost years of our memories.”

Oaklyn let out a quiet breath. “So you don’t think they’re accidents.”

“No… I don't know.”

Oaklyn was quiet for several seconds. “You think someone did this,” she said finally. “That someone's targeting Russian celebrities?”

Viktoriya nodded, even though Oaklyn couldn’t see her. “Yes. What is the word? Umm, closeted Russian celebrities.”

“And you called me because you think the same thing might have happened to me?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.”

Viktoriya blinked slightly. “Okay?” she repeated.

“Yeah.”

“You believe me?”

Oaklyn let out a small, humorless laugh. “I woke up in a hospital with four years missing from my memory,” she said. “My car looks like it got crushed by a tank, and the only thing I remember before it happened is headlights. So yeah,” she said quietly. “I’m open to the possibility that something weird is going on.”

Viktoriya felt a strange mixture of relief and dread settle in her chest. Because if Oaklyn believed her, then the possibility she had been trying not to think about could be more real than she had imagined.

“There's too many possibilities,” Viktoriya said. “We should meet somewhere and talk about it.”

“Agreed,” Oaklyn said and soon the line was hung up and they had agreed on a time and place to meet in two weeks.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

January 8th, 2023.

— Dakota Sanchez apartment. Detroit, Michigan.

Her breath fogged up the hallway, as a tight knot formed just behind her throat that had nothing to do with the January cold.

Viktoriya stepped into the elevator and the doors closed with a slight groan. The elevator smelled faintly of bleach and was a cold contrast to the otherwise beautiful building.

She'd rehearsed what she was going to say beforehand, and she was going to stick to just that. She wasn't going to talk with her about getting back together, she was just going to mention the car crashes and the feeling she had that something was deeply wrong. She needed to tell someone, and she'd shamefully realized last night that the only person she wanted to tell had been Dakota.

She stood outside the door and felt incredibly small and juvenile as she knocked.

The door opened and Dakota stood there in sweatpants and a dark top, her hair slightly damp as if she had showered recently.