Page 80 of The Wrong Monster

I say nothing. She doesn’t know where we’re going. She doesn’t know I’m not meeting investors or contractors, or anyone else connected to Deep Waters.

When I stalk out to the car, Matty slows down, realizing immediately that it’s just the two of us. She glances at me and then back at the house as if expecting Art or one of his team to materialize.

There’s a moment of hesitation that flashes through her eyes. I smirk.

“Scared to be alone with me, Zvezda?”

“No,” she scoffs.

But when I hold the passenger side door open for her and our arms brush, she flinches away. I lick my lips and close the door firmly, trying to hold back a grin as I walk around the car.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, we pull up outside a squat, run-down brick building. It could be worse; it could be any of the duplexes on either side of the street, missing siding. From somewhere comes the scent of sewage water; likely backing up thanks to the night’s rain, which has turned into this afternoon’s drizzle.

I park the car at the curb and unbuckle. Matilda looks out the window. Her eyes narrow.

“This is your business outing?” Her gaze skirts the yard, which is mowed but full of crabgrass. On the front porch, one bamboo blind hangs crooked in a window.

“Stay here.”

I open the door.

“Vasily!”

“Stay.”

I shut the door before she can argue. As much as I enjoyed the short drive here, and Matilda’s fretting as she wondered what she’d gotten herself into, reality sets in as I walk up the path to the door.

The building smells like old concrete and dampness. I climb the narrow stairs and knock once before letting myself in.

Kevin’s mother is standing in the kitchen. For half a second, she looks angry when she sees me, hands frozen at hip-height, near the pockets of the apron she’s wearing.

Then she recognizes me.

Her expression crumples, mouth twisting sourly. Her eyes fill and her hands clench—to punch me, or to resist rushing to me, as she did the night we brought him home?

“How is he?” I ask quietly.

She presses a hand to her mouth. “He’s alive. Bruised and sore, but alive, and that’s all I can ask for.” The words break on the last syllable.

I nod. “I know.”

Mrs. Harris wipes at her cheeks, staring at me like I’m responsible for the fact that her son is still breathing, but also that he’s in as bad a way as he is.

Maybe I am. I’m not sure yet; I haven’t been able to track down Semiyon. The man is as much shadow as he is a coward.

The two men Art stationed across the street are still there. Mrs. Harris knows their faces and has a number to call day or night. They’re here to keep trouble away from her and Kevin, not to ask the boy for another favor.

I step farther inside the apartment, looking around and cataloging small things. I fight back the temptation to reach out to Ariadna and ask her to have basic comforts delivered here. They could use a newer couch that doesn’t sag in the middle, a microwave, and a handyman to fix the linoleum tiles peeling up where they meet the kitchen cabinets.

“He asked about you.” Mrs. Harris’s face changes, shifting finally to one of relief. For the first time all day, I have absolutely no idea what to say.

A floorboard creaks behind me.

I turn.

Matilda stands in the doorway, frozen. She looks out of place here, the way I must, too. Untouched, flawless, in simple but comfortable clothes. Not the shirt with a stretched-out collar that shows Mrs. Harris’s collarbones, or the worn slippers near the door.