Losing interest in the books, he makes his way to the kitchen. He stops in the doorframe and assesses the shelf with two chipped glasses and a dented pot, the only inherited items that haven’t yet broken or rusted. His attention moves to the geranium on the windowsill. The sturdy, green plant is my pride and hope. I found it in the trash and managed to save it. Whoever discarded it must’ve thought it was dead, but there was still a tiny bit of green in the stalk. It was dry, neglected, and I felt sorry for it. The fact that it fought and survived to bloom and thrive is a reminder to myself to never to give up.
He looks at the darker square on the lanoline floor where the fridge used to stand. I long since sold it when I couldn’t pay the rent, just like the rest of the furniture and everything else that were worth a few bucks. Without groceries, I don’t need a fridge. A few minutes ago, where tomorrow’s dinner was going to come from was my biggest problem. I never imagined my life could get worse.
Suddenly tired, I hug myself. “Look, just tell me why you’re here and then leave me alone.”
He doesn’t acknowledge me. He’s staring at the food cupboard. Instead of a door, it’s covered with a curtain, which I left open, exposing the almost empty jar of peanut butter and crust of bread.
“I suppose an introduction is in order,” he says when he finally turns back to me. “Since I already know your name, it seems only fair.”
“I don’t want to know your name,” I blurt out. The less I know, the better my chances of survival.
He extends a hand. “Maxime Belshaw.”
My shaking gets worse. This doesn’t look good for me. When I don’t move, he strides over, grips my fingers, and presses his lips to my knuckles. The gesture seems taunting instead of chivalrous, and I yank my hand away from his touch.
“Now that we know each other, Zo, we’re going to have a conversation.”
“Don’t call me that.” Only people who care about me call me Zo.
He raises a brow. “Isn’t that what your friends call you?”
The fact that he knows is disturbing. “Exactly. They’re friends.”
Rather than upset, he appears amused. “Zoe, then. Your older brothers, they left town a long time ago. Am I right?”
“If this is about Ian or Leon, I haven’t heard from them since they left.”
“No.” Reaching out slowly, he drags a thumb along my jaw. “This isn’t about them.”
The gentleness of the touch catches me off guard. I have to bend backward to escape the odd caress because my calves are pressed against the couch.
“This is about Damian,” he says.
When he drops his hand, I straighten, trying to hold his gaze without letting him see the fear in my eyes.
“This is how our talk is going to work,” he says. “I’m going to ask you a few questions, and you’re going to answer them.”
“Never.”
I’m not ratting on Damian. Of all the people in our dysfunctional family, he’s the only one who cares. Damian is only five years older than me, but he single-handedly raised me. He looked out for me when no one else did. He’s suffered enough. He didn’t deserve any of the terrible things that have happened to him.
Maxime looks me over. “You’re tougher than I expected. The poor ones usually break easily.”
My anger makes me forget to be frightened. “Fuck you.”
“Did I hit a nerve?”
“Go to hell,” I hiss.
“Fine. We’ll play it your way.” He takes his phone from his pocket and swipes over the screen.
My heart pumps so furiously I feel every beat in my temples. He rests the phone against the book on the coffee table with the screen turned toward me. A video call connects. The video and audio functions on his side are deactivated. Whoever he’s connecting to can’t see or hear us.
A second later, an image fills the screen. I freeze. A chill runs down my spine. Maxime’s cronies are next door with Bruce, and my neighbor is tied up in a chair.
“Bruce!” I jump for the phone, but Maxime easily grabs me, holding me by my arms. I struggle in his hold, but I’m no match for his strength. “What are you doing to him?”
“Quiet,” Maxime says.
I try to kick him, but he easily restrains me.
“Why are you doing this?” I cry out, fighting to free myself while his fingers dig harder into my flesh.
The bald bastard pulls back his arm and plants his fist in Bruce’s face. The chair topples over, Bruce landing on his back.
“No!” I strain forward, trying to reach the phone, but Maxime holds me tightly.
The guard picks up the chair. Bruce spits blood, his eyes filled with venom as he glares at his assailant. The bastard hits him again, this time with a blow on the jaw that sends his face flying sideways.