Page 77 of Silenced

He shrugs. “I don’t know.”

That car contains mylife. Depressing, considering it’s a beat-up piece of junk, but true.

“I don’t have much stuff left but what I do have is in there.” Scowling, I cut him a look. “I have clothes in the trunk too. I could wear them instead of, you know, bathrobes.”

His blank expression has me huffing until he signs, “Could Rundel have taken it?”

“I guess,” I mutter, batting his hand aside when he tries to place a slimy piece of potato salad on my bottom lip.

Our obstinate personalities go to war as he refuses to move away until I open up for him but I keep my lips sealed. Triumph roars through me when he grunts and pops the morsel into his mouth instead.

That’s when I tell him, “He had his own ride but he might have taken mine.”

“Where did you last park it?”

A dull throb starts to beat in my temples when I try to find an answer to his question, but I come up blank.

Shoulders slumping, I mutter, “It’s all a blur.” Refusing to cry, even if the tears would be born of frustration, not sorrow, I ask, “That man—”

He shoves a piece of potato between my lips.

When did he even pick that up?

The bastard.

With no choice other than to chew, I watch as he signs, “Which man?”

I’m pretty certain captives aren’t supposed to be annoyed by their captors, but mostly, that’s where I’m at now.

It’s difficult to be scared when he isn’t scaring me.

Pissing me off?

He’s got that down to a fine art.

Fear?

No, that’s not what I experience when I’m around him.

And trust me, I’m as freaked out by that as the next woman. How could a powder puff like Harvey scare the everliving crap out of me by breathing, but this Russian Albanian-killing machine doesn’t?

It makes no sense.

“The one you killed,” I sign with a glower.

“What about him?” he replies as expressionless as ever.

A part of me contemplates trying to break his nose just to see if hewillreact. Another part wonders if he’s had Botoxeverywhere.

Studying his features for wrinkles—he has some on his forehead so I know hecanmove the muscles—I ask, “How did you find him?”

“He approached the motel room after we arrived.” His gaze remains glued to my mouth. A second later, his thumb smoothes what I assume is some mayonnaise along my bottom lip.

This time, I succeed in batting his hand away. “Why were you there? Did my friend send you?”

I don’t know why a wife of the Irish Mob would send a Russian in for help, but who am I to argue with politics and turf?

Hey, I’ve seenThe Sopranos. I know how this shit works.

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