Katerina

I never would've known about Chucky's Lounge if it weren't for Fabiola. It was located at the grey part of town, where Mother never lets me go to. I don't even want to think about how she'll react if she finds out I often spend most nights here with Fabiola. It won't bode well for me.

"Katerina!" Fabiola cheers as I enter the Lounge, waving for me to join her. She's so loud that a few people glance at her with mixed expressions. Not that she doesn't draw the eye naturally, what with her long red hair, perfect hourglass figure, and freckles so cute you'd swear she drew them on.

"Hey, Fabiola." I sit in the chair across from my friend.

She leans forward, her voice hushed. "How's your mother?"

"Mom's fine." Grimacing, I shake my head, whipping myself in the cheeks with my hair. "No, that's bullshit. Before I get into it, I need one of those." I gesture at the empty glasses.

Fabiola signals for someone. One very petite waitress immediately sways our way, her tight black skirt clinging to her hips. A guy tries to grab her ass, and she immediately elbows him with a smooth, well-practiced motion without bothering to look back at him. I can't help but start laughing. She sees my reaction, winking as she gets close. "What can I get you girls?"

"Some liquor to loosen us up."

"Oh no." Giving the waitress an apologetic smile, I point at the blackboard over the back of the bar. "I'll have a pint of the Stockwood Nitro."

"Beer?" Fabiola looks at me incredulously. "You're drinking beer? Who even are you?"

"Someone who doesn't want to wake up in a stranger's bed."

She rolls her eyes at my retort before she orders herself another martini. Once the waitress walks away to leave us waiting for the drinks, Fabiola lifts her eyebrows at me sympathetically. "All right, spill. What's wrong with your mom?"

I really wanted some alcohol in me before going down this road. Watching anxiously for the waitress, I pick at my fingernails. "Mom's not bugging me. It's Sebastian."

Fabiola's eyes widen. "Wait, don't tell me he stole..."

"Again." I blow out a breath. "I don't know what to do. It's way worse than last time, and we might be forced to close down the store soon. And Mom wants to sell the dance studio too."

Fabiola shakes her head sadly. "That's too bad. How is your mother handling it?"

"She's overwhelmed and keeps apologizing. I swear to God if I catch Sebastian anywhere near that store, I'll knock out a tooth." Gritting my teeth, I notice I've cut the skin by my thumbnail in anger. My rage simmers when I look up, relieved to see the waitress with our drinks.

I take the beer, enjoying how cold it feels in my grip, and make sure to tip the waitress well. She gives me an appreciative smile before she walks away. "You need anything, you just yell," she says before slipping into the chaotic crowd.

Arching my neck, I take a huge pull of my drink. It burns perfectly, like I'm swallowing fire. But it's what I want.

"Katerina," Fabiola presses me. "What are you going to do?"

Sighing, I put the glass on the table, turning it slowly in a circle. "I'm out of ideas at the moment. Mom really wants us to sell the studio. In fact, she said she already has someone coming to make an offer, but I told her none of that is happening. Dad worked so hard to keep that dance studio in good shape before his passing. I can't let his sacrifice go to waste."

"Holy shit." She leans back in her chair to take this all in. Tipping her drink to her lips, she leaves a smudge of bright pink lipstick. One more swallow and the martini is gone. "Okay. Wow. That's ... I'm so sorry, Katerina. This on top of everything else—you must be overwhelmed."

"Everything else?" I ask.

"Yeah." Fabiola cocks her head the way a dog might if it heard something strange. "You know," she prods. "Isn't it the anniversary⁠—"

Right ... The bitter memory suddenly rises in my throat like bile.

"Don't." I bite the word in half; she recoils like I dug my teeth into her.

My hand creeps around to my stomach and I hug myself, drawing my knees upward slightly. Searching for my beer, I frown when I discover it's empty. Somehow, I drank it all without realizing.

"I'm not going to think about that," I tell her, my tone icier than I would like. "And you shouldn't either."

"Of course, whatever you say." She puts on her best fake grin, waving for the waitress to begin our round two. My plan to stay sober goes out the window. Who can blame me? The stress I'm under isn't normal. I pride myself on being strong, like my father taught me to be, but this is too much.

Two rounds become three. My plan to stick with beer shifts because Fabiola gives me a taste of her martini, hooking me with its bitter kick. And by the time Fabiola starts pulling me toward the exit, I've got a strong buzz going.

"Where are we going?" I ask.

"Home. I think we've both had enough, and Josh is never going to let me hear the end of it if I come home blackout drunk."

"Boring," I tease. She's right; any more alcohol and I'll go from dizzy joy to stumbling in the street. The air outside is crisp, a welcome change from the humidity inside Tsar's.

Fabiola gives me a firm hug as we balance in our heels on the curb. "Thanks for coming out, Katerina."

"No, no, no, thank you. You're a great friend, Fabiola. We need to do this more."

She holds me at arm's length. Her lipstick is smeared from rubbing her mouth on too many martinis. Even while slightly drunk, the concern swimming in her pretty blue eyes is legit. "If you need help, let me know. Got it?"

"I'll figure it out. Really." Hugging her one final time, I point at the taxi pulling up behind her. "Get some sleep. Tell Josh I said hi and that I'm sorry I got you this drunk."

"You better be calling an Uber. You can't drive right now."

"I won't," I promise, hand to my heart. "My car is down that way. I just want to get my jacket from it, and then I'll call a car."

Screwing her face up, she silently warns me not to lie before she turns, half-stumbling into the back seat of her taxi. I wait a moment, watching the red taillights fade into the quiet night. It's starting to feel pretty dead out here. This area gets almost no foot traffic after midnight.

Mom is going to lecture me for hours if she finds out. Shaking my head, I walk on stiff legs toward my car. I'm not as drunk as Fabiola, yet walking on the uneven concrete is a challenge.

Popping open my trunk, I fish around until I find the jean jacket that I tossed in there some months ago. I packed it in anticipation of the coming fall weather, but summer unexpectedly pressed on, taunting the city with its wretched scorch even as September bled into October.

When I stick my arms through the sleeves, adjusting the front, I feel a lump in the right-side pocket. Slipping out the wrinkled yellow Post-it note, I read the scribbled writing.

William, Margret, Rose, Brandon.

It takes me a second to make sense of it. Then I remember, and it's like being punched by a wrecking ball.

My fist shakes as I crumple the paper, throwing it into my trunk, slamming it closed. Breathing heavily, I turn away, walking without purpose as tears sting my eyes. I can't escape it. Why won't the world let me move on? Why can't I just be free?

Heated by my tangle of emotions, I don't notice I've wandered toward the docks until the whiff of salt and dead fish hits my nose. Lifting my eyes, I scan the warehouses, trying to get my bearings. Time to call an Uber and get home. Maybe sleep will make me feel better. I know it won't. It hasn't yet. Reaching for my phone, I freeze when a sound to my right catches my attention.

At first, I think it's a dog whimpering. On instinct, I head toward the noise. My heels click on the hard, splintered boardwalk around the side of a brick building not far from Tsar's. Just before I turn the corner, I hear the sound again.

"Please, no, you can't!"

Pulling up short, I lean against the damp wall beside me. That's no dog. Craning my neck, I carefully peer at the scene on the other side. There are two men there. One is massive, like a tombstone rising from the earth in human form. He's solid all around, hard edges draped in a dark suit. I can't see his face, but I can see the face of the other man in front of him. That man is pale as old milk, trembling visibly on his knees as he cranes his neck to stare up at his friend.

No, I realize with budding horror. They're not friends. Something is wrong. The fear slips through my blood in wriggling waves. A shudder passes through me, and not from the chilly air.

"Please," the man on his knees sobs. He runs his large, bony hands over his jaw. A shaky smile crosses his face, so wide I can see his gums. "Just think it through. We can work this out, can't we?"

The mountain of a man doesn't budge. He lifts his chin slightly, letting me see the square line of his jaw. Even in this dim light, I can tell that he is wickedly handsome. In a smooth motion I nearly miss, he drops his right hand deep into his suit pocket. On his wrist is something that glitters. A red Rolex watch, I realize curiously.

"No," he says, his voice pure baritone. "We can't."

The gun shines in the single nearby streetlight. The barrel is short, as thick as the massive man's finger. There's no time for the pleading man on the ground to react. He's still wearing his nervous smile when the gun goes off. The smile doesn't fade when he topples sideways, blood leaking from the hole in the front of his shirt.

A startled gasp escapes me. The killer shifts, starting to turn in my direction. I clasp my hands over my mouth, not waiting to see if he noticed me as I sprint down the dock at a speed that would snap my ankle if I made a single misstep.

It's a miracle I don't fall. Adrenaline keeps me moving, but it's the terror that drives me hardest.

He killed him!

He killed that man!

Panting, my throat on fire, I run past my car, past Tsar's, and I don't stop until I'm at least another five blocks away. Sweat saturates my chest. Tears blind me, some from the pressure of the wind from my run, some from agony. What I witnessed was a literal nightmare.

I always knew terrible things happened in this city; I'm not naive.

But I never thought they'd happen in front of me.

Mom was right. I never should've come out to see Fabiola by this time of the day.

The sound of the gunshot replays in my head. Over and over and over until I clutch my skull, crouching on the sidewalk in a manic mess. Yet, when I close my eyes, it's not the murder I remember. I don't think about the blood or the dead man's red-stained smile.

I see the handsome killer.

And the red watch around his wrist.