Page 39 of The Wrong Monster

Chapter 11

Matilda

The man arrives exactly at 9:00; not 9:02, not 8:59. Nine o’clock on the dot.

“I’m here to collect you.”

Collect, as if I’m his dry cleaning. He’s not winning me over so far.

I look up from the stack of financial records someone left me yesterday and find the largest human being I’ve ever seen filling the doorway. His brown suit does absolutely nothing to disguise the fact that every inch of him looks to have been carved from granite.

“You have a name?”

“Arthur.”

“Just Arthur?”

“That’s the one.”

I sigh and set the file aside. “Lead the way, Just Arthur.”

That gets a smile from him, which confuses me even more; what exactly does he do here?

He escorts me through parts of the house I haven’t seen before. The guest wing gives way to wide hallways, natural wood, and fewer doors. The security somehow becomes even more obvious, at odds with the quiet luxury. Not men, but cameras tucked into corners and reinforced locks.

It has to be Vasily’s side of the house.

Interesting.

We step through heavy double doors and it’s immediately obvious that this is his suite. His scent is everywhere, and I realize belatedly that I already know it. It’s familiar, and it makes my skin tingle.

The next thing I notice is how busy the space is. Not dirty, just lived-in.

One wall is covered in architectural blueprints held up with magnets and thumbtacks, several marked with handwritten notes in a scribble. Another is dominated by enormous monitors displaying security feeds, weather reports, and financial dashboards. A half-disassembled drone sits on a workbench beside an espresso machine that gleams like a new Alfa Romeo. Books are stacked horizontally instead of vertically, and there’s a weathered pocketknife that looks too old to belong in a room filled with cutting-edge technology.

It should feel chaotic. Instead, I’m intrigued, and I take another step forward without thinking. Arthur towers somewhere behind me, his presence like a rock.

“Nosy.”

His voice cuts cleanly through my thoughts. I hadn’t even noticed him, which is why I’m reaching for the pocketknife, but that one word stops me, heat burning my cheeks.

Vasily leans in the doorway to an adjoining office; sleeves rolled to his forearms. He tips his head, and Arthur’s hand presses lightly at my mid-back, propelling me forward.

Inside the room, Vasily takes a seat behind a heavy modern desk. Across from him sits a man about twenty years older, white-haired and sour-mouthed. The difference between the two of them is stark. Vasily must be at least twenty years older than me, but his temples glint silver, making him look dangerous in a way that’s much too compelling. The other man looks grumpy, like a curmudgeon.

Vasily’s eyes slide over me briefly. Cool, assessing. Then, as I carefully lower myself into a chair, he gestures toward the older man.

“Matty, this is Beaumont Snyder.”

The attorney inclines his head politely.

“My current lawyer.”

Something in the wording catches my attention. Current. I glance at him sharply, and he smiles, as if we’ve shared a secret.

“And Beaumont...” He turns toward the older man. “...this is who’s replacing you.”

For one glorious second, the room is perfectly silent. Then Beaumont’s complexion turns an alarming shade of purple.