Watch Me Glow (Six Silent Sins Book 2) Read online

  “Okay, bye.”

  I shuffle back to Nick, leaning over the backrest. “Did you find anything?”

  He smacks his lips. “Only tons of VIP pictures.”

  No surprise here. Why would the press be interested in a no-name interpreter when they can get Milla Jovovich, Anna Kournikova, and Adriana Chechik in front of their cameras?

  “Contact Milla.” I tap on the picture of her on the screen. “She gave Devon an autograph. Maybe she remembers her name.”

  “I’ll shoot her an email,” he says with a nod. “I also checked Valerie’s business account, but she deleted her entire browser history from the last six months.”

  “Of course, she did. She was constantly on Facebook.”

  I dial Valerie’s private number once more, but again, the call goes to voicemail.

  “Hey.” An idea pops up in my head. “Do you have Valerie’s address?”

  Nick leers at me from over his shoulder. “What, you want to show up at her house? She doesn’t work here anymore. A little creepy, don’t you think?”

  “PM her on Facebook then.”

  “Already did, but don’t hold your breath.”

  “Then get me her fucking address, dammit!” I snarl. “And check her business phone. I want a list of her calls from the last seven days.”

  Nick stands up, leveling a stare at me. “Sorry, bro, but you’re going too far.”

  “I don’t give a fuck.”

  With an angry flick of my wrist, I fling my phone onto the sofa. I’m so riled up, I almost feel the blood vessels bursting in my eyes.

  “Clearly.” He circles the sofa to stop in front of me. “That girl is starting to consume you. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re suffering a bad case of OCD.”

  I stare at the floor, dragging both hands down my cheeks. With a long, low sigh, I step around him only to sag down on the sofa where he sat a minute ago.

  “I just want to find out her name…” My voice cracks at the last word. I hate how weak and helpless I sound.

  Nick heaves a sigh from behind me. “What about Carl? Silent Sins is his baby. If anyone can give you her name, it’s him.”

  “Already tried to talk him into it. He won’t budge.”

  “Then at least get him to reactivate your private chat with Devon.”

  “The breach isn’t solved yet,” I say, chagrined. “His hands are tied.”

  Nick scoffs. “Carl doesn’t have any ties. He’s one of the most influential men on the planet. He could slice someone’s throat in front of the White House, and Homeland Security would offer to bury the corpse.”

  I prop my elbows onto my knees, wringing my hands. Nick only knows what I knew before Carl spilled the juicy details yesterday—that there had been a security breach. He has no clue that some fucker broke into eNtimacy’s headquarters and attacked Devon’s accountant to hack her file.

  Nick’s phone rings with an incoming message, and he pulls it out to read it.

  “Gotta go now. I’m having lunch with Janice.” He claps my shoulder from behind. “Don’t let this shit tear you down, bro.”

  I wait until he leaves before I grab my phone and send Carl a message. Maybe Nick is right, and Carl just needs a little nudge. One of the Russian oligarchs yesterday told me he had an impressive Rolex collection, and I know for a fact that Carl is dying to get his hands on a Stelline 6062.

  To my surprise, his answer comes almost immediately.

  Carl: Deal.

  My feet bounce on the floor as I open the Silent Sins app and navigate to the private chat.

  “Yes!”

  I pump a fist in the air. The chat is active again. Finally, a silver lining on the horizon.

  My dragonfly girl…

  You can hide.

  You can run.

  But soon, I’m going to unravel your secret.

  Am I a killer?

  Could I take someone’s life? Would I have the guts to pull the trigger even in the face of danger?

  For a long time now, something evil has been consuming me. Rooted in my heart and growing there like a virus ever since Luka turned from friend to enemy. A desire to harm him and make him feel my pain. A hope that Hell will swallow him and torture him for the rest of his days, just liked he’d tortured me.

  I glance down at the gun on the kitchen table, spinning it with my fingers.

  One bullet could end his life.

  One bullet could be my remedy.

  One bullet, and I’d be a free woman.

  I could get away with it. I’ve played the scenario in my head a hundred times. Luka will take his time. Ease me into his presence. Watch my reactions and analyze my responses. Think things through before he makes an appearance on my doorstep—after deactivating my smart security system, of course. He’s too smart to leave any trace.

  I spin the gun again, the metal scraping on the wood almost a comforting sound by now.

  I would invite him in. Keep my distance and show him my trepidation so as not to raise any suspicions. He will start to talk. Explain his motives, make promises, woo me into a relationship. I would listen. Let him know that I’m willing to give him a chance.

  It will take time. An hour, maybe two until I’ve gained his trust, and he’ll drop his guard. The Glock would be safely hidden underneath my waistband. And when the time comes, I would move toward him, tentatively lifting my hand to place it on his chest. My touch will make him crumble inside, will make him look down at my hand, and then, I would make my move.

  I chew at the inside of my lip. I would need to be fast—yank out my gun, press it against his chest, and pull the trigger before he realizes what’s happening. No hesitation. No doubts. No mistakes.

  I’ve only got one shot. Literally.

  I narrow my eyes at the gun as it continues to spin on the table. The metal gets warmer under my touch.

  I could go the extra mile. When he’s down, I could put the gun in his hand, use his finger to pull the trigger and shoot myself in the leg. It will hurt like a bitch, but no pain no gain, right? Zoya made sure the gun came without a serial number, so the authorities wouldn’t be able to track it back to me.

  But… am I a killer?

  “Do you remember when we watched Resident Evil that day we couldn’t leave the house because it wouldn’t stop snowing?” Zoya asks from where she slouches on the couch in the living room, and I startle.

  Shoving the gun away from me, I swivel in my seat to face her. “Yeah.”

  She lifts the autograph I got from Milla Jovovich and taps a finger on it, lost in childhood events while I’m lost in killing fantasies.

  “The zombies scared you to death,” she says with a chuckle. “You couldn’t shut an eye the entire night.”

  Good old times. I’d take an army of zombies over Luka fucking Sokolov any day.

  “Yeah…”

  My usual, mechanical response these days.

  Yesterday, at Crawford Crescent, it was all I could do not to run away and just focus on my job. No matter how much I’d tried to convince myself that Luka couldn’t possibly be in the same building, the fear of him lurking in the shadows clung to me like a sticky layer of ice.

  Then again, I’d never earned a thousand dollars so fast.

  Zoya rises from the couch and shuffles into the kitchen, scraping a hand through her spiky hair and making it look even messier.

  “Coffee?” she asks.

  “Yeah.”

  I pluck at a loose thread on my shirt, my knee bouncing underneath the table. After my drinking escapade last week, I feel the lack of alcohol in my blood. An ice-cold bottle of Vodka Mamont is waiting for me in the fridge, but Zoya won’t let me have a sip. She’s been around a lot these days, making sure that I eat, sleep, and talk. As much as I love having her around, her constant need to watch over me like a compromised suicide victim annoys the hell out of me.

  My phone rings, and I flinch, my eyes darting to the screen. Unknown number. I quickly decline the call.

  “Who was that?” Zoya asks when she sets a steaming mug of coffee in front of me.

  “None of your business,” I snap, trying to hide my apprehension. Unknown caller ID’s are a red rag to me.

  Zoya stays unfazed by my crabby attitude. “I still don’t get why you haven’t changed your number.”

  “Maybe because it would be as futile as changing my name, my identity, and moving to another fucking continent.”

  With a grunt, I push to my feet and saunter into the living room to feed my dragonflies. Luka knows where I live. He knows when I’m home. He knows about Silent Sins. Hell, he probably knows when I’m about to take a piss, lying in wait on top of a building like a sniper ready to eliminate his target. Back in Russia, I changed my number three times, and it didn’t do shit, so what’s the point? As long as Luka Sokolov is still roaming this earth, he will find me, even if he has to crawl on all fours.

  I open a can of blood worms, and Skitters, Bitsy, and Hopper snap their jaws in agitation when I drop their food into the water. Spidey is the last one to get a piece of his share, his damaged wing slowing him down, and I save him an extra fat worm for last.

  Zoya comes up from behind me, leaning down to watch my pets. She points at Spidey as he drags his crooked wing out of the water.

  “His wing will never heal again, but maybe, he’ll still be able to fly,” she says in hushed tones.

  “Yeah, maybe…”

  No, he won’t. I know better. Spidey will never soar into the air. He’s broken. He can never live a life outside his cage.

  Just like me.

  Jaded, I amble back into the kitchen to grab my mug. Mom smiles down at me from inside her golden frame on the wall. God, how I wish she were here right now, telling me everything will
be fine. How I wish she could pull me into a hug and press a sticky lipstick-kiss onto my cheek.

  How I wish I could text Ross and tell him everything. How I wish I could meet him one more time, letting his deep voice seep into me as he speaks the words I’ve come to crave.

  My dragonfly girl.

  I press my eyes shut, fighting the urge to rub a hand over my heart and instead grabbing the gold charm around my neck, just for something to hold on.

  When all of this is over, I’ll come back to you, Ross. Will you wait for me?

  I exhale a shaky breath. I don’t even know if Ross is still a Silent Sins member. He could have quit, for all I know. They closed our chat last time I checked. Kate contacted me earlier today, informing me that their legal team found out about my fake birth certificate. I feared they’d kick me out of their case study, but Kate supported my cause. So, my membership is valid until the free six-month period is over. No idea why she bent over backward for me. Maybe she blames herself for not keeping her promise to protect my file which is silly considering she landed in the hospital thanks to me.

  Slurping my coffee, I shuffle back into the living room where Zoya has made herself comfortable on the couch and plop down in front of my computer. I scowl at the papers on my desk. My motivation to translate the three death certificates is about as high as that day Zoya took me for a polar bear plunge on New Year’s Eve, but I know I can’t put off work any longer.

  Propping my head up with a fist, I set my mug aside and check my inbox first. An email from Crawford Crescent popped in about an hour ago, sent from the contact form on my website.

  RSVP - Urgent Request for Russian Interpretation

  Nathan Crawford, the CEO of Crawford Crescent, sent the email personally, and I straighten in my seat as I open it. Apparently, the gallery lost my contact information and is now on the search for the Russian interpreter from yesterday with another job offer.

  See how insignificant you are? They couldn’t even remember your damn name.

  I scoff. No matter how well they pay, I have no intention to do another interpretation in front of so many people anytime soon. There’s a shit ton of work waiting on my desk, and I still need to figure out how to live a somewhat normal life with a stalker who could kidnap me the very moment I step out onto the streets.

  I mark the email to respond to later when the doorbell rings simultaneously with my phone, and I jump in my seat, almost knocking over my coffee. I leer at the screen that shows the live view of the camera outside. Two people stand in front of my apartment, waiting for me to invite them in.

  But not just any people gathering from the navy blue, short-sleeved jackets with radios strapped to their shoulders and thick belts around their hips.

  Cops.

  Shit!

  “Who’s that?” Zoya asks, oblivious to my panic attack.

  I gulp, clutching the edge of my desk. Kate warned me that they were about to show up. I’d just hoped I could leave Zoya out of this.

  The doorbell chirps again—three times.

  “Ella?” Zoya asks when I dart up and bustle into the kitchen. “What’s going on?”

  “The cops.”

  I grab the gun and jam it into a cabinet.

  “The cops?” She rushes over to me. “But why—”

  Raising my hands, I shut her off. “Sorry, I didn’t tell you earlier. Just… keep cool and let me handle this, okay?”

  She gapes at me while I smooth down my hair to appear somewhat presentable. Taking a deep breath, I open the door.

  “Ms. Jenkins?” the man with short, dirty blond hair asks in a tone as flat as his nose, not waiting for my response as he flashes me his license. “NYPD. I’m officer Andrew Baker, this is officer Nancy Scott.” He points to the small, chubby woman next to him with a red-dyed bob that doesn’t compliment her skin tone. “May we come in?”

  Do I have a choice?

  With a curt nod, I open the door wider and lead them into the kitchen. Their heavy boots stomp on the floor as they follow me, and we all sit down around the table.

  Officer Baker glowers at Zoya as if annoyed with her presence, but I don’t bother to introduce her as my sister, shooting him a blank look. Zoya’s hand finds my knee underneath the table, and I squeeze it.

  “I take it you know why we’re here?” His monotone voice suggests he’d rather shoot himself in the head than endure this conversation.

  That makes two of us, buddy.

  A dozen witty comments hover on my tongue, but I bite them back, knowing it wouldn’t get them out of here any faster. I bop my head.

  “Kate Dugan, your accountant at eNtimacy, was attacked last week,” he says anyway, pulling out a pen and paper. “She told us the guy who broke into her office hacked your file. She couldn’t see his face but said he had a Russian accent. Any idea who he was?”

  His look of disdain tells me what he thinks of Russian people in his country. Chances are he’s convinced I’m working for the Russian Mafia. After all, Brighton Beach isn’t called ‘Little Odessa’ for nothing.

  Zoya’s head snaps in my direction, her fingers clawing into my knee.

  I pick at a lint on my sleeve, stalling before I respond. “Luka Sokolov.”

  “Who is he?” the woman asks, her gentle eyes showing that she’s the good cop of the two. She looks like auntie Tatyana with the big glasses sliding down her nose.

  “My stalker. I reported him back in Russia multiple times, which I’m sure you already know.” My tone speaks of my forced restraint, and I add a frigid stare for good measure.

  They exchange ominous looks. I’ve got a notion of what they’re going to ask next.

  Mr. Racist sends me a wry look. “You think that man followed you to the US?”

  “I know it for a fact.”

  “How come?”

  “He left a gift on her doorstep two days after New Year’s Eve,” Zoya throws in before she stands up and opens a drawer behind me to fetch the box I’d wanted to throw into the ocean.

  She places it onto the table. Officer Scott pens the lid and peeks inside, then pulls out the picture, the note, and the Fabergé egg.

  “Luka took the picture from outside our house in Belgorod, shortly before my mother died,” I explain, my throat closing up.

  After examining the blue egg, she reads Luka’s note.

  “Not handwritten,” she says when she’s done, throwing me a repentant glance.

  “All his messages are typed. He’s too smart to give away his handwriting.”

  She points at the note. “Did he send you more?”

  “Not since I’ve moved here, but he sent me dozens back in Russia.”

  “Did you keep them?” the grumpy cop asks.

  I fire a scowl at him, crossing my arms. “Sure. They were the first things I took with me when I fled my homeland to escape the guy who made my life hell on earth.”

  He smirks as if he’d been waiting for me to lose my composure.

  “Ms. Jenkins… or should I say, Ms. Jendarov,”—his eyes twinkle with mischief—“if we’re supposed to catch the guy, you need to keep everything as evidence.”

  I purse my lips, trying to maintain an even tone. “I did. I gathered every crumb—gift cards, flowers, letters, even audio and video recordings. And do you know what happened?” Inserting a dramatic pause, I uncross my arms and lean forward. “Luka turned the tables. Told the police I was harassing him, trying to frame him for something he didn’t do. They sent me on my way with a four-figure fine for filming him without his consent.”

  He opens his mouth, no doubt to come back with some bullshit about paragraph 3.1.fuck-me-if-I-care when Officer Scott interrupts him.

  “Can you give us a description of this man?”

  Reclining in my chair, I turn my head to face her. “I gave the Russian authorities a three-pages description when I reported a stalking offense. You’ll get a copy.”

  My tone conveys my irritation. I can’t count how many times I’ve talked myself blue in the face about my ‘harassment case,’ and it didn’t get me anywhere.

  She points to the Fabergé egg on the table. “Other than that, did you ever get any calls from him? Messages? Emails?”

  I blow out a noisy breath. “No. Not his style. As I said, he doesn’t leave any traces.”

  “Did he ever vandalize your property?” Mr. Racist asks.

  “Not here. Back in Russia, he broke into my car and my bedroom.”