Page 39 of Alik

Nikita lets go of the chair, his eyes hooding on an exhale. “He burned you pretty badly, didn’t he?”

I nod.

He burned everyone.

But me? I have the scar to remember it.

“I want you to locate him,” Nikita says. “Look in Moscow first. When you find him, give our friends there a call.”

“And say what?”

Nikita’s lips pinch. “You know what.”

Kill him.

Of course I know. I should’ve known this was coming all along.

He wants my loyaltyandmy expertise.

At least I don’t have to go to Moscow. For the second time in my life, I’m grateful not to be the one to do a hit. And this is all within a matter of a few days.

Something is wrong with me.

“Of course, sir.” I dip my chin and stand, sensing this conversation is over.

“Alik?” Nikita stops me when I go to turn. “I don’t have to tell you that this stays between us.”

I open my mouth with anotherof course siron my tongue, but I pause and decide to tell him what he really wants to hear.

“You can trust me, sir. My loyalty is to you.”

He stares at me a few long moments before nodding his dismissal.

I turn to leave the bar, giving a half-hearted nod to Sergey on my way out and declining when he offers me a ride. I don’t mind getting around on foot and by bus today. It’s what Olive’s doing.

I go back to my apartment and fire up my computer, but before I spend a second on Vitaly, I pull the notebook from my waistband. I slowly lower into my seat while flipping it open, sweet anticipation making my heart beat faster.

A familiar drawing of a flock of birds is on the first page, and when I run my hands over the feathers, I realize why it’s familiar. It’s the tattoo Olive has on her torso.

My fingertips rub the rough canvas while my eyes follow the flock. This isn’t a diary or even a notebook. It’s a sketchbook.

I flip to the next page to see a portrait of a little boy who lives two doors from me. He has a fake, toothy grin and is wearing a collared shirt. It looks like Olive sketched his school photo.

I turn a few more pages, admiring her handiwork of the people in our building. The woman with the purple lipstick. The man with the gold tooth. Our super who always has her hair in a frizzy ponytail.

Olive is good.Reallygood. An artist.

I’m enraptured by her talent, touching each lifelike character like I’m testing to see if they’re real, and when I come to my image, my hand pauses midair.

She drew me in black and white.

I stare at my image like I’m looking in a mirror. My lips are relaxed but unsmiling. My eyes the same. It looks more like a mugshot than the boy’s school photo.

I turn the page, expecting to see the next portrait, but it’s another drawing of me, only not just my upper half. I’m leaning out a window with a cigarette in my hand, my hair disheveled in the wind.

My squinted eyes drift to the window.

I flip the page to another drawing of me at the window. Then another. I have a different posture, my hair is slightly different, and I’m wearing a different shirt, but I always have a cigarette.

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