Mason’s eyes stay downcast, his fingers fisting in his hair.
“When he got drunk, he was like an open book, treated me like his confessional. The things he told me . . .” I shake my head at the memory of his admission.
No one messes with us, sunshine. Gotta guy who gets off on cuttin’ up people. Even killed a girl doin’ it.
“Fuckin’ hell,” he mumbles beneath his breath.
“He took off for a year, and I thought it was over—that he was dead and that everything he knows died with him—but he’s back now.”
I wait, for something, anything. Silence thickens the air between us.
“Say something.” I’d go to him, but his body language is screaming to be left alone.
He rips his hands through his hair, and he spears me with an icy-blue glare. “You’re asking me to do the impossible!”
My body jerks to touch him, but I sit back, refusing to take away the space he needs to process. “Is it? Is it impossible?”
“To sit back while you date someone else? Someone with ties to a murderer? Yes. It’s motherfucking impossible.”
“I don’t want him. I want you. Forever. After this is over, after I get the name of the man—”
“And if you don’t?” He shrugs. “What then, huh? How long will you be fucking this guy before you finally give up?”
I don’t know. Can a time limit be put on this kind of thing? I shake my head. “It took me years to get him to open up, years of living a life I hate, doing things that make me sick, knowing every day I’m disappointing my family because they think I actually like the person I’ve become.”
Mason’s face twists in disgust. “Exactly. So why go through it? There’s no guarantee you’ll find what you’re looking for. That guy could be full of shit. Why not just walk away now? You said it yourself you were going to quit stripping. Leave this vigilante mission behind, for us.” He implores me with his eyes. “Please, do that. Walk away and I promise I’ll give you a life you’ll never regret leaving that shit behind for.”
I swallow the lump forming in my throat. “You’re asking me to turn my back on Svetlana when I’m finally so close to figuring out who killed her.”
“Yes. But it’s for us, for your safety. Fuck, Trix, just think about all the things that could go wrong here.”
I blink up at him. “You’re asking me to choose you over her. If I walk away, I’ll always wonder.”
“No, you won’t—”
“And I’ll hate you for making me choose.”
He flinches at my words, but understanding comes over his face.
“My parents told me that they wanted to adopt Svetlana because she was older. Young children have a much better chance at finding a family. It took them years of legal shit and paperwork until they finally made it to Russia to pick up their little girl. When they got to the orphanage, they said she refused to go. She didn’t cry or throw a fit, but just kept saying over and over, ‘Moya sestra. Moye serdtse.’ They said she wouldn’t stop, just kept chanting it.”
“What does it mean?”
“My sister. My heart.” Pain slices through my chest at the memory of her words. “My dad told me I was like a growth holding on to her leg: screaming, crying, and kicking up a huge fuss. They knew then there was no way Svetlana would leave me and if they wanted her they’d have to take me too.”
“I don’t understand why—”
“Don’t you see? She saved me. She fought for me and refused to give up until she knew I’d be in the safest place possible, and that place was with her.”
He shakes his head, almost as if he’s battling against my words, trying to physically push them from his ears.
“Even in her death, she saved me.”
His gaze jumps to mine, jaw slack.
“Her death brought me to you.”
“If you believe that, then stay with me.” He leans forward. “Don’t do this. It’s not worth it.”
He doesn’t get it. I crawl off the bed to the floor in front of him. His eyes watch me warily as I push to sit on my knees between his open feet. “She was sliced from here”—I turn my head and run my finger from my ear to the corner of my mouth—“to here. Like they were trying to cut her jaw from her face.”
He turns away. “Stop, I don’t—”
“Look at me.”
His eyes dart back to mine then follow my finger to my neck.
“Then to here.” I trace my fingertip down the side of my breast, making X’s at my nipples. “Here.” I slide my finger down my sternum and across my stomach. “Here he criss-crossed.” Back and forth I drag my finger across my bellybutton, lower to between my legs. “All the way down.” I lower my hand until—
He catches my wrist hard and tosses my hand away. “Fuckin’ enough! I got it.” He rubs his eyes, as if the visual is playing in his head. “So, what? You plan on seducing this man to get him to spill?”