18
Chloe
Slava and I are in front of the house, observing three squirrels chasing one another from tree to tree, when the black pickup truck rolls up the driveway. The windows aren’t as darkly tinted as those of the deceased assassins’ vehicle, but I still freeze in place, ambushed by a flashback so intense I break out in a cold sweat.
“Chloe? Chloe, who is it? Who is it, Chloe?”
I blink at Slava, who’s tugging insistently at my sleeve, and force down the gruesome recollections of my Toyota getting smashed against the tree. I thought I was getting over what happened—even my nightmares have eased during these halcyon days—but I guess I was fooling myself.
I’m no more recovered from my trauma than Alina is from hers.
“Who is it?” Slava demands again, rocking back and forth on his heels
