Dima
Fuck, f**k, f**k!
“Right here!” I shout into the phone as I pound the pavement to the corner. I dive into the passenger side of Nikolai’s car.
“Where are they?”
“Silver Nissan, turning left,” I bark. “You see it? Up there!” I point.
“On it.” Nikolai’s foot slams down on the accelerator, and he cuts in front of the car beside us to get ahead. “What happened?”
Alarm bells shriek in my head.
“He showed up in his car and said he’d drive her home.”
Nikolai says nothing, focused on threading his way through the thick traffic of downtown Chicago.
“You think he’s taking her somewhere?”
“Blyad’— I don’t know! This might be nothing. But it feels all wrong to me.”
“He’s not headed toward our building.”
The brick I swallowed sinks to my belly. Nikolai’s right. He’s headed in the wrong
