Dia was dead and she didn’t deserve it.
“Maybe I want justice for her,” I said quickly, letting it spill out before I could stop myself. “Does that matter at all?”
“No,” he said, meeting my gaze. “No, what you want doesn’t matter.”
I pushed my chair back. “I think I’m ready to go.”
He watched me carefully. “Before you leave, listen to me. You can’t go to the police. You can’t talk about what you saw last night, ever, to anyone.”
“Why? Because you don’t want me to?” I stood and glared down at him. “I don’t know who you think you are—”
“Because Manzi’s father will find out, and he doesn’t share my feelings about hurting innocent people,” he said, interrupting me.
I felt my anger deflate somewhat.
I didn’t know why I was letting him rile me so much. Maybe it was that condescending attitude—like I couldn’t understand what was going on and all I needed to do was shut up and obey him.
Or maybe it was this confusing, roiling, intense desire I felt lingering in my extremities, lodging in my stomach, threatening to overwhelm every breath I took.
I didn’t like feeling out of control. I didn’t like feeling as though I were in someone else’s debt.
And I certainly didn’t want to stay here any longer.
“I’ll see what I can do,” I said finally, after another agonizing silence.
“Good. If you want to return to your life, all you have to do is walk out that door. I’ll make sure our paths never cross again.”
“That’s it? I watch some girl die and go pretend like nothing happened?”
“That’s it.”
I tapped my finger against my hipbone. “Where’s my jacket?”
“Hanging by the front door.”
I walked past him and down the main hall. I spotted my jacket on a peg and grabbed it. I pulled it on and let the size swallow me down. I felt safe in that jacket, hidden in the deep layers, with the weight of a can of Mace in my pocket.
I’d almost forgotten all about it.
Roman came after me, lingered in the portal between the hall and the kitchen. He watched me with that disconcerting stare of his, and I wanted to scream at him to cut it out because he was driving me crazy. I didn’t know if it was lust boiling up inside or if it was anger or if it was fear.
Probably a little bit of all three.
“It was very nice meeting you, Cassie Ward.”
I stared at him. “I don’t know your last name.”
“Lenkov. Roman Lenkov.”
“I wish it was nice meeting you, but I’m not sure how I feel about all this.”
Another ghostly smile. “I think I can live with that.”
“What Roza said. Was all that true?”
“I only heard some of it, but yes, I suspect she didn’t lie.”
I sucked in a breath and slowly released it.
Just like he’d shown me.
“Goodbye, Roman Lenkov.” Without looking back, I pulled open the door and left.
I found my bike leaning against the front porch. Two men lounged against a black SUV nearby, smoking dark cigars. One of them was the handsome driver from the night before. He smiled at me and nodded as I wheeled my bike down the driveway.
“I’ll open the gate for you,” he called after. “I hope you enjoyed your stay at Chez Lenkov.”
I suppressed a smile and waved. The massive gate at the end of the sloped drive pulled back. I mounted my light pink, rusty cruiser and rode out into the street, the wheels creaking the whole way.
The gate ground shut behind me, and I was gone.
The longer I rode, the better I felt. All of that had been some kind of bad dream. Roman, Roza, that driver.
Dia’s blood and brains on the decking. Manzi staring at me with those wild eyes.
None of that was real.
My life was quiet. I kept to myself, stayed bundled up and hidden away.
I’d worked hard to rid myself of men like Roman and Manzi.
I didn’t want him. Didn’t want any of it.
So why did my chest still feel tight? And why did I keep feeling Roman’s hand on my leg, keep hearing his breath synchronized with my own?
And why did I want to turn back around and ride as hard as I could to his house and beg them to let me back inside?
I lowered my head against the bitter, cold wind and pedaled faster.
6
Cassie
One Month Later
I parked my bike out front of the Shiny Lobster and locked it to a meter. Sea Isle was starting to pick up again—not many tourists yet, but the bar was half filled. Winter waved as I made my way to the back to punch in. The place was dim and decorated with ocean-themed kitsch: old wooden buoys, lobster cages, oars, boat photographs, and mermaid paintings. The tables were chipped, the vinyl floors peeling, but the drinks were cheap and the music was loud, so people seemed to like it.