Page 8 of Broomsticks and Bloodstains
When she finally got off, it was near a street in the Bronx crowded with walk-ups and fire escapes. A laundromat hummed. A bar’s neon sign flickered. A dog barked from a window above a deli. This was a neighborhood that minded its own business until it didn’t.
I let the bus pull away and rolled to the next corner, then parked in a shadow where a streetlamp had died and nobody had bothered to call about it.
She turned down the block with the laundromat, and I pulled out to follow. She walked past a church and diagonally crossed the street. I watched the sway of her hips as she stepped around a puddle, then another, before opening a short wrought-iron gate and climbing a set of cracked concrete steps to a blue door with four crooked mailboxes. The first-floor windows all had bars on them that matched the fence at the front.
She grabbed mail out of the lower right box, then inserted a key to open a front door that looked like they needn’t bother locking. The light to the side of the door flickered on and off twice before deciding to stay on for a few moments. When she seemed to struggle with the lock, the light went out again, leaving her in shadow.
A frown pulled at my brow as I found myself irritated that no one had fixed the obvious short. Then I quickly shook off that train of thought because it didn’t make sense.
I memorized the number stenciled by the door. Then I memorized the faces of the men smoking on the stoop across the way, the woman walking a dog, the kid spray-painting his name on a trash can. Witnesses without knowing. I took a photo of the building, checked the reflection in the SUV’s rearview for tails. Clean.
My phone buzzed again. Konstantin.
Fucking hell.
K: You have her?
Yes. Address pending confirmation, I replied.
His reply was immediate.
K: Good. Don’t make noise tonight. Tomorrow we speak with Boris. After, you cut the thread.
As the activity continued on around me, oblivious to who or what I was, I stared at the message until it felt heavier than the phone. After, you cut the thread.
I could. It was what men like me were made for. I could step into that hallway tomorrow, catch her between heartbeats, and make it all go quiet. It would be easy. Clean, if I wanted it to be.
But as she won the battle with the rickety knob and the blue door swung shut behind her, I felt the echo of her in the hallway at Popov’s. The husky timbre of her voice, soft and stubborn. Nothing that concerns me.
My hands tightened on the wheel. Then I relaxed them.
Not tonight.
I started the engine, let the idle settle. I would confirm her full name, the bar she worked at, the friend inside the catering company, the routes she took, the hours she kept, the doors that stuck on their hinges in her building, and the windows that didn’t lock right. I would build the map. Then I would decide where to fold it.
A shadow moved on the second floor—her silhouette crossing a window, pausing as if she could feel something wasn’t quite right. I waited until the light snapped off. Then I pulled away from the curb, the city swallowing me whole.
Yeah… she was definitely a problem.
And problems, in my world, never stayed small for long.
Chapter 8
Sofia
Morning light spilled through the blinds like an interrogation lamp. I groaned and pulled the blanket over my head, though it did little to block out the city’s noise or the pounding in my skull. Not a hangover—God, I hadn’t even had a sip last night. No, this was worse. This was adrenaline wearing off, leaving nothing but raw nerves and shaky limbs.
I hadn’t slept much. Every time I closed my eyes, I was back in that hallway, tray trembling in my hands, his voice curling against my ear.
What’s your name? What’s your name? What’s your name?
“Ugh,” I huffed as I rolled over and stared at the small stack of envelopes on my nightstand—rent due, utilities, another notice from the loan servicer reminding me that my future was already collateral. With a sigh, I sat up and reached for my purse, still slumped against the chair where I’d dropped it.
The tips had nearly burst the seams of the envelope Esteban had handed me.
Tearing open the flap, I spilled them onto my bed, crisp bills scattering like fallen leaves. Blinking hard, I stared at the pile. I counted twice just to be sure, then a third time because it didn’t feel real.
Seven hundred and eighty-four dollars. For one night. Holy shit.
