Page 128 of The Perfect Mistake

How could someone rob these two?

When we arrive back home, Katja hugs Isabel tight. She asks if the girls are okay and how they’re feeling.

I lean against the kitchen island with my arms crossed tight over my chest. Listening to all of it, I can feel my jaw grow tenser by the minute.

Katja and Isabel throw me a wary look before talking about logistics. Guest rooms and food and the kids.

Elena comes to stand closer to me. Her gaze wanders around the living room, stopping at the bar cart, the grand piano, the large TV.

“Wow. You do pretty well for yourself,” she tells me.

I slide my gaze to hers. “I manage.”

“I can see why my sister likes living here. Damn. Is that a fireplace?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, my joke just got a hundred times better. Robbed by New York lowlights, only to be picked up another kind of robber. A New York billionaire.” She smiles. “That’s a joke, by the way. This is me testing the waters. To see if you’re okay with a bit of sarcasm?”

I blink at her. “Yeah. That was a great joke.”

“See, now I can’t tell if you’re serious or not.”

“He’s serious,” Isabel says, coming up to her sister’s side. “I just don’t think he’s in the same adrenaline-filled, giggly mood we’re in. Come on, let me show you my room.”

They disappear down the hall. I say goodnight to Katja, who gives me a grim smile. “Mac will hate that he wasn’t there.”

“It’s his weekend off.”

“Still. He’ll hate it.”

I roll my neck. “He would have been great in that situation.”

Katja nods. Lingers for another moment before she leaves too, heading back home for the night.

I release the breath I’d been holding. I once again find myself alone. The apartment is quiet, but it’s not empty now. And it’s not serene.

Someone pulled a knife on her.

On Isabel.

There’s a sour taste in my mouth, something foul and bitter, and I can’t seem to wash it away. Not even with the glass of scotch that I drain. So I pour myself another and sink onto the couch in the living room.

I need to hold her. To hear her tell me she’s okay.

It’s almost an hour before her footsteps echo down the hall. I’ve come to recognize them, the way she sounds walking barefoot over the hardwood floor. Near-silent.

“Hey,” she says quietly. She’s changed into her sweatpants and a tank top, and her hair twisted into a wet braid. No bra, no makeup.

I put my glass down. It’s now my third.

“Your sister?”

“Asleep.”

I reach for her, and she softens in my arms. I wrap them tight around her waist and breathe in the scent of her shampoo. The hair beneath my chin is damp, but her skin is warm.

I close my eyes and just hold her.

---