Page 75 of The Wrong Monster

“No. You need someone to tell you the truth.” His voice rises above the machinery. “You’ll always find another reason to stay. Another enemy. Another threat. Another person who needs you.”

I take a step toward him, a mix of relief that he isn’t involved and just thinks I’m a criminal. It’s the same way everyone else assumes it. Timur doesn’t move. Instead, he doubles down.

“And you’ll never find love,” he says. “Because you’ve become someone incapable of letting another person into your life.”

A shout erupts below us. A worker signals to the crane operator. The entire construction site seems to explode into motion around us.

I feel my mouth twist into some kind of sick smile, Matty’s face flashing through my mind, her supple body beneath the sheets this morning.

But the truth is I can’t remember any of the other faces; any of the women before her. What I can remember is what it feels like deep at night at the lake house, with a single lamp on and loneliness swallowing me whole.

“You think you’re better than me because you have a wife and a child?”

“No. But I’m happier than you’ll ever be, Vasily.”

“You think being legitimate makes you strong?”

“I think it makes me free.”

If I take one more step toward him, I’ll destroy it. I’m sure of it.

“You’re too weak to survive without everything this business gives you.”

Timur’s face goes pale. I dump the coffee out onto the ground.

“You want your perfect life? Fine. Enjoy it.” Turning toward the ridge, I add: “But don’t stand there pretending you built it yourself. You’re incapable, little brother, and you always will be. You need me.”

Behind me, the machinery roars louder. Neither of us says another word.

Chapter 21

Matilda

The trail winds through a wall of evergreens, the forest floor thick with damp leaves, pine needles, and detritus that makes every step give a soft, wet crunch beneath my boots. The air smells like pine and cold earth, sharp enough to wake me up.

I had to buy the boots this morning because I never anticipated being kidnapped and ending up in Lake Placid, hiking with my best friend.

She’s the one who insisted on coming up here. Maybe she instinctively senses the mess I’ve gotten myself into.

A stick snaps under my boot, startling me back to reality. There’s a lukewarm thermos in the pocket of a small daypack that mysteriously appeared in the foyer of Vasily’s lake house, as if someone there wanders into the woods often. I can’t imagine it’s him, with his moody eyes and sharp jaw. I take the thermos out of the pocket, messing with it.

I’m still thinking about him, and that’s becoming a bigger problem than I anticipated.

I should be thinking about Mikhail’s case. About the next motion, and the evidence I still need to review. Instead, my brain keeps circling back to the same question: What exactly am I supposed to do with Vasily?

Ignore him? That seems impossible.

Avoid him?

Apparently also impossible.

Sleep with him again?

Absolutely not.

…probably.

I inhale through my nose, repeating an insane mantra: He’s just a man, like every other man. Who cares if he’s dangerous enough to kill me and good enough in bed to make me forget?