I chalk it up to me being entirely too paranoid given what happened a few weeks ago and continue cooking.
The phone rings. I put down the wooden spatula, hurrying over to the other side of the kitchen to grab the landline. Not many people call this number, so I answer a bit apprehensively.
“Hello?”
The person on the other end of the line doesn’t speak, but I can hear them breathing.
I repeat myself. “Hello?”
The call goes dead.
Before I can put it back on the receiver, the back door to the house bursts open. I scream and stumble backwards as a man enters the kitchen. It takes me a moment, but up close, I recognize him as the man from the grocery store, the one in overalls and boots who’d handed me the tomato I “dropped” in line at checkout. Dumpster Fire Hulk.
“Get out of here!” I scream, starting to reach for a knife. I don’t get too far before the man pulls out a gun. He points the pistol at me, and I feel my blood run cold.
This can’t be happening. Was he the noise I heard outside? The person calling to make sure we were home?
It hits me that he followed me back to the house. I knew I was right to trust my instincts about him. Something about him was off. He just oozed danger; it dripped from his pores like sweat.
“Where’s your father?” he snarls, stepping another foot into the house. He closes the door behind him, trapping me in this room with him.
I consider diving for the knife and taking off, putting distance between us. I don’t think I’d make the lunge before he got a shot off, though. I’d be left lying on the floor, bleeding out.
Instead, I swallow hard.
“I don’t know,” I lie.
“Don’t lie to me, Victoria,” he growls in a Russian accent, gripping the handle of his gun harder. I don’t even want to know how he knows my name. “I’m not going to ask you again. Where is your father?”
Down the hall, I hear a voice. “What’s all the screaming about, Vic?” he asks grumpily. He limps around the corner and sees us, freezing in his tracks.
“You missed a payment again,” the man in the overalls says, this time to Dad.
“What?”
“You owe us money. You skipped this month,” he says, simple and slowly.
“You told me you paid it, Dad,” I whisper. I don’t want to believe that he would do this, but suddenly, it all makes sense.
That’s why he was watching the races.
He did bet on them.
He took the money I gave him for his debts and bet on the stupid horse races instead of paying off what he owed to Morozov.
How could he do this to me? To us?
Dad gives me an apologetic look. “Listen, you don’t have to involve my daughter,” he says, holding up a hand to the intruder.
“No, I think we do,” he says. “It appears that you need more incentive to hold up your end of things. Come here, girl.”
I hesitate, and he jabs the gun in the air towards me.
“I will not repeat myself,” he rumbles. His voice is harsh with that accent.
I swallow hard and walk over towards him. He clamps down with strong fingers on the back of my neck. I can feel the gun rest lightly against my ribcage.
“Stop it!” Dad shouts, but the man ignores him.
“You owe Mr. Morozov money. If you do not pay it, you and your daughter may both be harmed. It is in your best interest to give us what you promised, Mr. Elwood.”
“Fuck you!” my dad spits. In response, the man grabs a fistful of my hair and yanks my head back. I feel pain sear like lightning bolts through my scalp. He presses the tip of the gun against my exposed throat.
“Get your fucking hands off her!” Dad roars, charging unsteadily towards the two of us. He stops when the intruder levels his gun towards him. I see his finger twitch, and for a second, I’m terrified that he’ll pull the trigger and take Dad away from me for good.
Instead, he keeps his aim steady on Dad as he begins tugging at my shirt.
“I already said that I don’t like to repeat myself,” the man says carefully. But for the sake of your daughter, I will say this one more time: pay us what you owe us, Mr. Elwood. Or I will be forced to do things to your daughter that I do not want to do.”