Page 55 of Corrupted Heart

“You think I’m slinging 8-balls, you dumb bitch?” he snaps. “Those were bricks you decided to just run away from. You got four hundred grand on you? Because rest assured, I fucking will be collecting on that. But for now…”

I jolt, gasping, tears springing to my eyes as Grisha jams the gun against my neck.

“Light it.”

A hand reaches past me. The lighter flickers. Instantly, the rag stuffed into the bottle catches into a hungry blaze. Grisha and his buddies giggle and snort, springing away before Grisha points the gun at me again.

“Better throw that quick!” he snarls. “Else it’s gonna blow your fuckin’ head off.”

I turn to stare at the old Land Rover. My hand trembles as the heat of the flames ripples up my arm.

“And if you miss…” Grisha growls from behind me.

The cocking of the gun hammer tells me how that sentence ends.

“Do it,” he snaps. “Fucking throw it!”

My arm winds back. The flickering flames gleam and dance in the windshield of the car.

No one’s in it. It’s just a shitty old truck.

Also, I don’t want to die.

With a deep breath, I wind up and hurl the flaming bottle at the vehicle. The glass shatters on impact. Instantly, liquid flames engulf the hood, the windshield, and the passenger side door. The fire roars like an angry dragon, licking over the roof, down the side, and then dripping to the ground around the wheels. One of the tires pops with a bang, making me scream and sending Grisha and his friends into convulsions of laughter.

The windshield and one of the rear windows burst. Metal begins to whine and shriek. The heat of the pyre scorches my face as I stare in horror at what I’ve done. Slowly, I pull my eyes away, turning and walking back to Grisha.

“Okay, I did it,” I mumble, shaking as I hug myself. “Can I please go?—”

The explosion is deafening. The force of it knocks the wind right out of me and hurls me to the ground alongside the three Russians. The pavement bites into my palms and my chin, making me wince in pain. Grisha and his buddies hoot with glee as something roars like a hurricane behind me.

Sucking in air, I roll over. My eyes go wide, my mouth falling open as I stare at the mangled twist of metal billowing with flames where the car used to be.

What the fuck have I done?

An hour later I’m home, at my apartment.

I can’t. Stop. Shaking.

I have a million missed calls from Alicia and a hundred panicky, apologetic texts. I ignore them all as I crawl into the hottest bath I can stand and start to scrub the grime and gasoline-scented soot from my skin. I wince when I clean the cuts on my hands and my chin, then get out and quickly kneel next to the tub to try to wash the smoke from my hair.

Back in the kitchen, I reach over and mute my phone, since it just keeps blowing up with Alicia’s texts. I pour myself a huge glass of red wine, downing half of it in one go.

I still can’t stop shaking.

Suddenly, I frown, thinking. I lurch from the stool in my kitchen and bolt to the front door of the apartment.

No.

It’s not hanging by the door.

Oh fuck.

It’s not in my dance bag, either. Or on the couch, or anywhere in my room. As I turn my apartment upside down, I start to realize that my purse isn’t here at all.

And I know I had it when I left the theater.

The pounding of fists on my front door almost stops my heart. My throat strangles the scream as I whirl, white-faced, and stare at it with horror.

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