“I… I found a leaflet for your company somewhere,” I stammer, still lost. “I had just been informed that I would be homeless and broke and sort-of divorced. I had no savings, no job, nowhere to go. I was desperate.”
That sounds pretty damn reasonable if you ask me, but Misha looks away in disgust. I’m still scrambling to put these jagged, confusing bits of information together into some picture that makes sense.
“You think… Anthony and I are… working together?” I ask. “You think we’re trying to con you in some way? Steal from you or something?”
“Oh, you’ve already stolen plenty,” Misha growls. “Konstantin saw the fucker run out of here today. Even with a broken nose, he recognized him instantly. Your ‘Anthony’ is the rat bastard we’ve been trying to find for the last couple of months.”
