Page 1 of Emerald Vices

1

NATALIA

Everyone is staring.

The people I pass look at me as if they can see every single thing I’ve done. Like my sins are splayed across my face and written in blood on my hands for the world to see.

What? I want to scream at them. Never seen a desperate woman before? Never seen a pregnant murderess?

I didn’t kill anyone, though. At least, I pray I didn’t.

He can’t be dead.

The moment I think of how Andrey sagged to his knees, the smell of gunsmoke still so strong and acrid it makes my eyes water, my stomach churns and my chest tightens until I have to stop walking.

But I can’t stop. If I stop, they’ll kill me.

If not Slavik, then Viktor.

If not Viktor, then Nikolai.

If not Nikolai, then… well, hell, if Andrey is alive, he probably wants to kill me, too.

The same way I wanted to kill him. Because that’s the only reason I would’ve picked up that horrible, terrible, life-stopping, death-bringing instrument, isn’t it? That’s the only reason I would’ve pointed it at another human being, right?

All I see when I close my eyes is the nameless criminal with his gun pointed at my mother and then my father. All I can think about is how easily and carelessly he pulled the trigger.

I’m no better than him now.

Teetering off course, I stretch my hand out and grasp the closest object I can reach. I sag against a sign post, the only thing keeping me from collapsing in a puddle of tears.

People keep walking past me without bothering to stop and check in. I don’t mind. No one needs an audience when they’re spiraling into madness.

Until one man slows and pauses. “Excuse me… ma’am?”

I flinch at the voice, kind and concerned though it may be.

The man addressing me has a young face, but deep-set wrinkles around his eyes. He’s wearing a navy jacket and a wool bucket hat that comes down to his eyebrows.

“Are you okay?”

I blink at him and he seems to think I can’t understand him, because he repeats the question again.

“I’m fine,” I mutter. “Just waiting for someone.” The lie flows off my tongue so easily, so smoothly, that I’m impressed with my own presence of mind.

But I don’t know this man. I don’t know who he’s working for or what he wants with me.

I can’t stay here. I can’t stop.

Picking up my feet, I force myself to walk away, moving farther down a road I don’t know the end of.

I don’t even know how I got out of the manor in the first place. All my mental and emotional bandwidth is focused on keeping me upright, keeping me functioning long enough to get somewhere “safe.”

Then again, now that I’ve shot the man who practically runs this city… is there such thing as a safe place?

I eventually find a bench and drop down onto it. People still hurtle past in every direction, their features blurring, morphing into the next, and the next, and the next.

I think I see people I recognize in the crowd. Katya, Mila, Misha, Shura… but none of it is real. I’m surrounded by strangers. One after the next after the next.

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