Page 12 of Sacred Vow

No reason that has to change now.

Andrei Petrov can send a car. He can send a plane. He can send the King of England for all I care. I’m not going anywhere.

And he can’t make me.

Her apartment is immaculate. A small one-bedroom apartment on the second floor with a large picture window overlooking the street. It wasn’t hard to get into the building and it was even easier to get into her apartment. If she was staying here, I’d have the whole building re-keyed, and a better security door installed downstairs.

Isolde is getting out of Chicago before anyone of consequence gets word she’s here.

I push aside the sheer curtain from the window and look down the street. I’ll be able to see her coming before she’s able to see me.

If I was a better man, I’d ignore the fact that she’s in town. I’d go back to my life and forget all about Isolde Madson. She’s not my problem. Not really. I did what I promised. I got her and her mother out of Chicago and set them up somewhere safe, somewhere none of the danger here would touch them.

Promise made, promise kept.

But now she’s here. And the vow I made to make sure she’s safe came back with her.

I drag my hand through my hair and turn away from the window with a heavy sigh. Much of the room reminds me of the house Craig and Isolde grew up in. There’s a small dish in the center of the coffee table filled with butterscotch candies. Her mom always had a bowl of those in the house, too. The same photos that hung on the wall in their family room now hang on the wall of Isolde’s living room. The same key-hook resides by the front door.

My breath catches when I notice the urn sitting on an end table in the corner of the room beneath a familiar lamp. Beside it, a picture of her mother.

Fuck.

I hadn’t heard about Mrs. Madson’s death when it happened. Since Isolde told me of it last night, I’ve looked into it, needing to be sure there was no foul play. An illness. A drawn-out fight with breast cancer had taken her from Isolde last year.

A car horn blasts outside, and I move back to the window. Isolde is crossing the street. Her middle finger poised high in the air at the cab driver who has completely disregarded the pedestrian crosswalk.

I watch as she looks both ways down the street on the sidewalk before jogging up the steps to the building. While she’s climbing the two sets of stairs to her apartment, I make myself comfortable in the armchair nestled in the corner of the room.

A moment later, the door opens and she rushes inside, kicking the door shut behind her before hurtling into the kitchen with the bags hanging from her left arm. I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees and watch her dump the bags onto the kitchen counter before she disappears into her bedroom.

“Where did I put that damn basket?” She’s muttering to herself in her room loudly enough that I hear her from my seat.

After more moments tick by and she’s walked past her open door twice, still without noticing my presence, I push off the chair and make my way toward her.

A foldable laundry basket is open on her bed, and she’s throwing things in it from the hamper in front of her open closet.

Still, I am invisible to her.

“Isolde.” I say her name as I step into her bedroom. It’s a small room; there’s barely enough space to walk around the bed that’s pushed up against one wall.

She freezes. I’ve interrupted her as she’s leaning over the hamper, digging out the last of her dirty clothes. Slowly, she stands and turns to see me. The color drains a little from her cheeks.

Good.

“What the hell are you doing here?” she demands, taking a small step in retreat. She’s pushed against the wall and I’m blocking the only other way out. Unless she’s able to leap over the bed, she’s trapped.

I like her this way, I decide.

The color comes back, making her cheeks flush.

Yes. I like this better.

“I told you I’d have a car ready to pick you up this afternoon.” I make a show of observing the laundry basket. “We can have your things cleaned when you get home.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you.” Her eyes rage at me. Did she honestly think staying away from the apartment until four o’clock was going to discourage me?

I’ve waited longer in dark alleys for my chance at a kill.

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