CHAPTER 7

PIPER

"You look terrible."

I glance over at Andrea's desk, but all I see is a set of bleary eyes staring at me over the top of a stack of paperwork. She's normally a sweetheart, so if she's telling me I don't look good, I can only imagine the state I'm in.

"Thanks for that," I reply wearily. "Really uplifting."

I drop my purse on my desk and flop into my chair. Nothing has changed since yesterday. My magnetic paperclip holder is still perched on top of my dwindling pad of sticky notes. Yesterday's coffee is still half-full like I left it. It's all the same.

But everything feels different.

"I'm not trying to be uplifting." Andrea spins her chair out to the side so I can see her properly. "I'm trying to make sure you don't bring that flu that has been going around in here. I can't afford to get sick."

"I'm not sick."

"Well, you look sick."

I fix her with a glare. "Again, very uplifting. I feel the love."

"Well, why do you look like that?"

"I overslept. It's not that bad."

Andrea's mouth twists into a disbelieving wince. "Hon…"

I glance down at myself. Even with the rosiest pair of glasses I can muster, things aren't great. The slacks I grabbed must have been in my dirty pile, because there's a strange brown stain on the thigh and they're badly wrinkled. I avoided the mirror in the office bathroom on my way in, but even in my peripherals, it was easy to tell my hair is a disaster.

"Okay, fine," I concede. "It's bad."

The fact that Timofey saw me like this…

Means nothing, I finish.It means nothing. He's insane and dangerous. What he thinks doesn't matter.

"I had a weird night."

I told Noelle and Ashley that I'd let people at work know about the crazy parent that attacked me, but I really don't think the man will come back. He was drunk and distraught. Timofey scared him off easily enough that I doubt he'll try again.

That's the thing about a lot of the parents I work with—they lack follow-through. If they didn't, they wouldn't end up in a folder on my desk. You don't lose custody of your kids by being responsible.

"Did you go to your meeting this morning like that?" Andrea asks. "James said you were meeting with Timofey Viktorov."

I stared at his name. "How do you know that?"

"James told me. Apparently, James's twin brother is a contractor or something for the military. He knows all about Viktorov Industries."

I want to ask what that is, but it would give me away. I should know what she's talking about. All of this information is almost certainly somewhere in Timofey's file. I guess I got hung up on the list of felonies on page one.

"He rambled on about it for a while," she continued. "The long and short of it is that the man is loaded. The meeting was at his house, right? Was it huge?"

"Massive," I breathe.

"And what about him?"

"Also massive."

Andrea cackles. "No, you goose! I mean, what was he like? James said he might be a crime boss or something. The truth is never as interesting as rumors, but did he seem like someone who breaks kneecaps for a living?"

The words are right there at the end of my tongue.Yes. He's dangerous. We need to call the police and get that baby out of his care.

Instead, I hear myself say, "He actually, uh… wasn't there."

Andrea does a double-take. "He stood you up?"

"It wasn't a date," I say a bit too harshly. "I was running late and he had another meeting to get to. We rescheduled."

I spin to face my desk, hoping Andrea won't sniff out my lie.

I'm not even sure why I told it. Timofey doesn't seem like the kind of man to give up easily. Just because I refused his offer and stomped out of his office doesn't mean he's done with me yet.

Andrea sighs. "Darn. Well, keep me posted."

"Will do." My voice comes out high and tight.

There's a pause before I hear Andrea's chair squeak closer. "Piper?"

I swallow nervously. "Yeah?"

"I don't think you're a liar or anything, but…" I hold my breath before she finishes. "…But if you're sick, please go home."

My heart restarts.Thank God."I'm not sick!"

"Fine. Whatever you say." She slides back into her desk, still muttering. "Sheesh."

I dig the heel of my hand in my eyes. Today is going to be a very long day.

I thought a run after work would help me clear my head, but as I rounded each corner, I kept expecting to see Timofey standing there waiting for me.

The run was born of necessity. The last thing a stressful day like this one needs is an elevated heart rate, but I rode the bus into work this morning. Which means my bike is still hanging from its hooks in my living room, and I'm far too jumpy to try and wedge myself into the back of a taxi. Even with the windows down, I'd be trying to claw my way out within a block.

So I dragged out the gym bag I keep in my locker and laced up.

All I want is to get home and double-check all my door and window locks.

I keep my head on a permanent swivel as I run, Timofey's criticisms playing and replaying in my head

.

You didn't even check to see if anyone was around.

Your head was down and you don't have a weapon.

You fool. You fucking fool.

I'm still technically weaponless, but I can feel the poke of the mail opener in the side pocket of my leggings. It's better than nothing.

Usually, I use the last two blocks of my run to cool down, but I don't slow this time. Not even when I get inside my building. Instead, I take the stairs two at a time and keep jogging until I slam my door closed and slide the deadbolt home.

Only then do I collapse back against my door with a thud.

"Fuck me," I whisper. Now that I'm inside my apartment, I feel stupid for being so scared.

What was Timofey going to do—lurk behind a trash can and snatch me off the sidewalk? He has no way of knowing I even went for a run. Plus, if he was going to ambush me, he would have done it at his house this morning.

I list off my own rationalizations for why my heart rate should slow and I can relax, but I don't start to breathe normally again until after my shower.

When I get out, I go through the motions of a normal night. I listen to a podcaster who can't stand to recap the latest episode of some reality TV show I don't even watch while I make myself a batch of taco soup big enough to last the next three nights. Then I curl up on the end of my sofa and eat while the laugh track to a decades-old sitcom plays in the background.

By all appearances, everything is as it should be in the life of Piper Quinn.

But I barely register any of it. My head is lost in some temporal space just behind my consciousness, torn between replaying my attack last night and parsing through every single word Timofey spoke this morning.

Another part of me is still in that alley, a desperate man's hand wrapped around my throat.

Yetanotherpart is standing in front of Timofey on trembling legs while he recounts every detail of my daily existence.

If you find the facts of your life insulting, that is your problem, not mine.

I look at my desk, which is also my side table since my apartment is too small for both. The medical bill on top of the stack has red ink stamped on the envelope.

FINAL NOTICE.

Timofey is right: that is my problem, not his. And I have no idea how I'm going to fix it.

When Noelle and Ashley call me later, I swipe to dismiss the call and quickly text them my excuse.I slept like crap last night. I'm already on my way to bed. Talk to you tomorrow.

It's a lie, but the moment I send the message, I realize sleep is a great idea. My eyes burn with exhaustion and sitting here spinning my mental wheels isn't helping.

The dishes in the sink and the day-old makeup on my face are both a tomorrow problem, I decide as I slip beneath my comforter.

I hear my phone vibrate, but I don't check it. It's probably from Noelle or Ashley. Whatever it is, it can wait.

I close my eyes and fall asleep before I can fully grasp my next thought.