Sasha
The fist in my solar plexus only loosens part way with Maxim’s promises. We step into the elevator together, and I have to breathe down my anxiety.
I hate living with suspicions. I wish mom had never suggested he might be after my money, that he might be trying to kill me because now the slightest thing gets me paranoid.
Not that hearing them talking about me in low voices can be categorized as the slightest thing. I think I had good reason to question him.
My mom texted me this morning from a new number to tell me she was still safe but not to contact her. She told me to get a burner phone, warning me that Maxim had access to all my call history, even if I deleted messages.
Of course, I know she’s right. I knew he’d put a tracker in my phone the moment he handed it to me.
The
