soon as I slip through the door, I’m hit with the distinctive scent of my captor. He smells like cedarwood, cigarettes, scotch, fresh orange rind, shoe polish, and that rich, heady musk that belongs only to him. The scent is so unadulterated that I doubt any other person has stepped foot in this room, not even Klara to clean it.
Unlike the rest of the house, this room isn’t dark and moody at all. The furniture is dark, but the space is light. That’s because it’s one of the highest points in the house, and the far wall is one gigantic window. It runs floor to ceiling, the whole length of the room.
While my window faces east into the tree-stuffed grounds, Mikolaj’s window looks out over the Chicago skyline. The whole city is laid out before him. This is where he stands when he imagines taking it all under his control.
I know exactly where I am now. I could almost point to my own house, situated on the rim of the lake.
If I searched, I could find it, picking out its gray-shingled roof from the other mansions along the Gold Coast.
Instead, my eyes are drawn back inside by the irresistible temptation of this private space. Looking through Mikolaj’s room is like looking inside his brain. In the rest of the house, I only see what he wants me to see. This is where I’ll find everything hidden.
He might keep his keys in here. I could steal the key to the front door and escape some night when everyone’s asleep.
I tell myself that’s what I’m looking for.
Meanwhile I’m trailing my fingers over his unmade sheets, releasing the heady scent of his skin. I can still see the indent where his body lay. It’s hard to imagine him unconscious and vulnerable. He doesn’t seem like someone who eats or sleeps, laughs or cries.
Here’s the evidence, right in front of me. I lay my palm down in that indent, as if I’ll still feel the heat of his body. My skin prickles and my blood runs faster, until I snatch my hand back again.
His bed is surrounded by built-in bookshelves. I draw close to read the spines.
Sure enough, I find exactly what I expected: weathered copies of The Hobbit, The Snow Queen, Alice in Wonderland, Through the Looking Glass, and The Little Prince, mixed in with Persuasion, Anna Karenina, and dozens more, some in English, some in Polish.
I pull Through the Looking Glass down off the shelf, cracking the spine carefully, because the book is so soft and fragile that I’m afraid some of the pages will come loose.
On the very first page, written in pencil, is a name: Anna.
I let out a sigh.
I knew it.
He was so angry when I spotted the illustrations in his tattoos. I knew it meant something, that it was tied to someone he loved.
That’s why he was angry. To brutal men, love is a liability. I discovered his weakness.
Who was Anna? Most of the books are for children, or young adults. Was she his daughter?
No, the books are too old. Even if they were purchased second-hand, the handwriting doesn’t look childish.
What, then. A wife?
No, when I took that jab at him about not being married, he didn’t even flinch. He’s no widower.
Anna is his sister. That must be it.
Right as I realize it, a hand grips my wrist and jerks me around.
The book flies out of my fingers. Just as I feared, the glue holding the binding together is too old to withstand this kind of treatment. As I spin around, a dozen pages tear free, floating down through the air like falling leaves.
“What the fuck are you doing in my room?” Mikolaj demands.
His teeth are bared, his fingers digging into my wrist. He’s run up here so fast that his pale blond hair has fallen down over his left eye. He swipes it back furiously, not looking away from me for a second.
“I’m sorry!” I gasp.
He grabs my shoulders and gives me a hard shake.
“I said what the fuck are you doing!” he shouts.
While I may have seen him angry before, I’ve never seen him out of control. Those times that he sneered at me, or taunted me, he was fully restrained. Now there’s no restraint, no self-control. He’s raging.
“Mikolaj!” I cry. “Please . . .”
When I say his name, he lets go of me like my skin is burning his hands. He takes a step back, grimacing.
It’s all the opportunity I need. Leaving the book torn