Mia
My keys feel like ice in my hand. I jab one at the lock of the main building door, my fingers clumsy and stiff. It takes three tries before the tumbler clicks. The sound is obscenely loud in the quiet street.
The lobby smells of damp concrete and boiled cabbage. I ignore the wheezing groan of the elevator and take the stairs, my worn sneakers silent on the linoleum. Two steps at a time. The silence from my apartment is a living thing, a predator waiting on the third floor landing.
The door to our unit, 3B, is not closed. It hangs open a few inches, a dark, gaping mouth. A sliver of blackness where there should be the warm, yellow light my father always leaves on.
My hand trembles as I push it open.
Chaos. That is the only word for it. The couch cushions are slashed, their cheap foam guts spilling onto the floorboards. The drawers from the little sideboard are pulled out and overturned, a pathetic collection of mismatched cutlery and take out menus scattered like fallen leaves.
A picture frame lies shattered on the floor. I see the cracked glass before I see the image beneath it. My mother. Smiling. Her face is fractured into a dozen pieces. A sharp, hot pain lances through my chest, fiercer than any fear.
“Dad?” My voice is a whisper, swallowed by the wreckage.
I step carefully over the debris, my eyes scanning every corner. The small kitchenette is destroyed. A bag of flour was ripped open, dusting every surface in a fine white powder, like a bitter, mocking snow.
“Dad, are you here?” I call out a little louder, my voice still shaking.
Silence answers me. A deep, profound silence that confirms what the cold knot in my stomach already knows. He is gone.
I move toward my bedroom, my heart a frantic drum against my ribs. Maybe he’s hiding. Maybe he’s hurt. The door is closed. I turn the knob and push.
My room is untouched. The bed is neatly made. The small stack of books on my nightstand is undisturbed. My secret floorboard, the one hiding my escape fund, looks secure. A wave of relief, so potent it makes me dizzy, washes over me. It is quickly followed by a fresh wave of terror. They didn’t want things. They wanted him.
I back out of my room, my mind racing. I need to call someone. The police? What would I say? My gambling addict father is missing and our apartment is trashed? They would take one look at our address and file it under ‘who cares’.
I turn back toward the living room, and my breath catches in my throat.
They are there.
They stand in the doorway, blocking the only exit, as if they materialized from the shadows themselves. The mountain of a man in the black suit, and the one in grey. The talker.
“Good evening, Mia,” the man in the grey suit says. His voice is still perfectly calm, perfectly smooth. It makes the hairs on my arms stand up. “I’m sorry you have to see your home in such a state. My apologies. We were looking for something.”
I say nothing. I just stand there, a statue in the center of my ruined life. My mind is strangely clear. The panic has receded, replaced by an icy, sharp focus. I note the crease in his trousers. The shine on his Italian leather shoes. The brand of cigarette he pulls from his case. A Gitanes. French. The blue box is distinctive.
“It seems your father was unable to locate what we were looking for,” he continues, lighting the cigarette. The smoke curls toward the ceiling. “And, regrettably, he was also unable to locate our money.”
“Where is he?” I ask. My voice comes out steady. Colder than I expected.
The man takes a slow drag from his cigarette. “David is… helping us with our inquiries. At another location. He has proven to be a poor investment. A liability.”
He takes a step into the room. The big man stays put, a silent monolith guarding the door.
“Assets and liabilities,” the man in grey says, his eyes roaming over me. That same chilling appraisal from before. “That is how the world works. Your father, he is all liability. You, however… you are an asset.”
He is talking, but I am listening to the sound of his voice, not just the words. There is an accent there, buried under the polished English. It’s subtle, but I can hear it now. A slight Slavic cadence. A hard edge on his vowels.
“Your father offered you to us, you know,” he says conversationally. “To clear his slate. A daughter for a debt. It’s a classic story.”
My stomach turns to ice. Even after everything, that confession hits me like a physical blow. He would sell me. He would actually sell me.
“Mr. Petrov, however, does not deal in such crude exchanges,” the man says. “He prefers a more structured arrangement. You are not payment, Mia. You are leverage. A guarantee that your father will become much more… cooperative.”
He is only a few feet away from me now. I can smell the expensive cologne mingling with the French tobacco.
“It is time to go,” he says. It is not a request.
The silent man moves. He steps forward, his huge hands reaching for me.
My mind screams. Run. Fight. Scream.
But my body does none of those things. Instead, in a single, fluid moment, a decision clicks into place. A desperate, insane gamble.
“I dropped my keys,” I say, my voice a little breathless.
I bend down, my eyes scanning the floor as if searching. My hand goes to my throat, to the thin silver chain I always wear. My fingers find the weak clasp. It takes a fraction of a second. The locket is in my palm, its familiar weight a final, silent goodbye.
I pretend to spot my keys near the wall, by the old cast iron radiator that hasn’t worked in years. I move toward them, my body shielding my hand from their view.
As I crouch to pick up the keys, I let the locket slip from my fingers. It lands on the dusty floor with a soft metallic click that only I can hear. With the side of my shoe, I give it a tiny, deliberate nudge. It slides into the dark space under the radiator, hidden from a casual glance.
A message. A clue. A piece of me left behind. For who, I don’t know. Maybe for no one. But I could not leave without leaving something.
I stand up, the keys clutched in my hand. “Found them.”
The man in the grey suit smiles. A real smile this time, tinged with something like approval. “Clever girl. Now, come along. Let’s not make this unpleasant.”
I walk toward them. I don’t fight when the big man takes my arm. His grip is like iron, but not painful. It is simply absolute.
As we step out into the hallway, the man in grey pulls a black cloth bag from his coat pocket. It looks like velvet.
“A precaution,” he says softly. “Please don’t struggle.”
He slips it over my head. Darkness. Total and complete.
My other senses scream to life. The smell of the hallway, stale and dusty. The sound of our footsteps echoing on the stairs. The feel of the big man’s hand firm on my back, guiding me forward. I count the steps down. Forty eight.
The cold night air hits my face, even through the cloth. I hear the distant city traffic. A car door opens. The sound is heavy, solid. A German car, maybe. An Audi or a Mercedes.
I am pushed gently inside, onto a smooth leather seat. A door closes on my left. Another door closes on my right. The man in grey gets in the front passenger seat. I hear the click of his seatbelt.
The engine starts with a low, powerful purr. The car pulls away from the curb, smooth and silent.
I sit perfectly still in the dark. I regulate my breathing. In for four, out for four. My mother, the nurse, taught me that. To calm a patient. To calm myself.
“She is quiet,” a new voice says. The driver. His accent is thicker than the other man’s. Russian, maybe.
“She is intelligent,” the man in grey replies from the front seat. I can hear the smile in his voice. “She understands that noise is a useless expenditure of energy.”
A moment of silence. I feel their eyes on me, even though I cannot see them.
“It is not natural,” the driver says, his tone uneasy. “She should be crying. Or screaming. This stillness… it is unnerving.”
“Let it unnerve you,” says the man in grey. His voice is a low murmur, a stream of smoke in the darkness. “It means her mind is working. And that is exactly what Mr. Petrov is counting on.”
I don’t know who Mr. Petrov is. I don’t know where I am going. I only know the facts I have gathered. A black sedan. A Gitanes cigarette. A Slavic accent. And a small, worn silver locket, waiting silently in the dust under a cold radiator.
