Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
Ella
"So you're really not coming tonight? Come on, honey—"
Sasha's voice came through the phone, disappointment clear in her tone. I wedged the phone between my shoulder and ear, freeing my hands to put the cranberry sauce I'd bought at the supermarket into the fridge.
"Not this time," I said. "You should enjoy the holiday with your family. I don't want to intrude."
"Intrude? My mom's been saying she wants to meet you. She even roasted an extra turkey. Ella, you're going to be miserable spending Christmas alone."
"I won't be miserable," I said, closing the fridge door and walking to the living room window. Outside, snow had started to fall. "I'm making turkey today, too. Got cranberry sauce and everything for mashed potatoes. You can have a perfectly good time by yourself."
Sasha went quiet for a moment.
"Ella," her voice turned serious, "you're still thinking about him, aren't you?"
My fingers tightened, leaving a small patch of fog on the window glass.
"Sasha—"
"You don't have to lie to me," she said. "I know you. Right now you're probably wondering why he hasn't texted back, why he hasn't come to find you, why—"
"I'm not," I cut her off, but even I didn't believe my own voice. "I'm just—just a little tired. Too much happened this week. I want some time alone."
"That's exactly why you should come here," Sasha said. "Being alone will only make it worse."
"I'm really fine," I said, trying to make my voice sound light. "Plus, I promised myself I'd make turkey. Already bought everything. Can't let it go to waste."
Sasha sighed.
"Fine, I won't push you," she said. "But remember—if anything happens, call me. Anytime, Ella. I mean it."
"I know," I said, my throat tightening. "Thanks, Sasha."
"Don't thank me," she said. "We're sisters."
"Yeah," I said. "Merry Christmas."
"Merry Christmas, you idiot."
I hung up and set my phone on the coffee table, sinking onto the couch.
The apartment was so quiet.
The hum of the fridge, the occasional click of the radiator pipes, the distant sound of a car passing on the street.
I hugged my knees, staring at the cardboard box on the coffee table—the one with the Christmas decorations inside.
This year, I'd planned to really decorate.
Get a little tree, hang lights and ornaments, and put some candles on the windowsill.
But now—
Now those things were still in the box, and I didn't even have the energy to open it.
I glanced at my phone.
The screen was black.
No new messages.
I picked it up, unlocked it, looked at that message—"Whatever."
Our texts ended four days ago. Nothing since.
Yes, it should be this way.
After what happened yesterday, the distance between us had become irreparable. What the hell was I still expecting?
Waiting for him to come find me?
Waiting for him to explain?
Or waiting for myself to figure out that this had all been wishful thinking on my part?
I flipped the phone face-down on the couch, stood up, and walked into the kitchen.
Cook.
Do something.
Stop thinking about it.
Everything I needed was in the fridge—turkey, potatoes, cranberry sauce, butter, and a bottle of cheap red wine.
I pulled out the turkey and set it on the counter, tearing open the packaging.
Cold to the touch.
I stared at it for a while, then suddenly remembered—I'd forgotten to buy herbs.
Rosemary, thyme, all those things you need for roasting turkey.
"Shit." I cursed under my breath.
Was there still time to go out?
I checked the time—five-thirty.
Most supermarkets were probably already closed, but there was a twenty-four-hour convenience store in Brooklyn that should still be open.
I grabbed my coat and wallet, locked the door, and headed out.
The convenience store in Brooklyn was farther than I'd thought.
Thirty minutes on the subway, then a fifteen-minute walk after getting off, before I finally found that little shop with its neon sign glowing.
A Christmas wreath hung on the door, snowflake stickers plastered on the window. Inside, the lights were bright, but there was only one cashier wearing a Santa hat, slumped over the counter playing on his phone.
I pushed through the door. The bell jingled.
The cashier looked up, nodded, then went back to his phone.
Not much on the shelves, but the basics were there. I found the spice section, grabbed rosemary and thyme, then picked up a bag of garlic on impulse.
At checkout, the cashier said, "Merry Christmas."
"Merry Christmas."
"Spending it alone?" he asked casually, like he was just making conversation.
"Yeah."
"Oh," he said, not asking anything else. He bagged my things and handed them over. "Well, have a good night."
"Thanks."
I took the bag and walked out of the convenience store. Cold air hit my face. The snow was falling harder than when I'd arrived.
Almost no one on the street. Just the occasional car passing in the distance, headlights blurring into fuzzy orbs in the snow.
I pulled my coat tighter and headed toward the subway station.
My footsteps made a crunching sound in the snow—crisp, echoing down the empty street.
Snow landed on my shoulders, in my hair. Cold.
As I walked, I thought about what I'd do when I got home—marinate the turkey with butter and herbs first, then into the oven, temperature set to three-fifty—
Suddenly, a strange feeling crept up the back of my neck.
Like something was watching me.
Not a specific sound, not a specific image. Just an instinct—vague, unsettling.
I stopped and turned around.
The street was empty.
Just snow falling under the streetlights, covering everything in white.
No one.
I shook my head and kept walking.
Probably just stress from the past few days. Nerves on edge.
But the feeling persisted.
Like a pair of eyes, from somewhere I couldn't see, staring at my back.
I walked faster.
The subway station was just ahead. If I could just get there, get somewhere with people—
Finally.
I practically ran into the subway station, swiped my card through the turnstile, and stood on the platform, breathing hard.
My heart was racing.
I leaned against the wall, closed my eyes, and took deep breaths.
Calm down.
It's fine.
You're just being paranoid.
The subway arrived.
I got into the car and sat in a corner seat.
Only a few scattered passengers in the car, all looking exhausted.
I set the bag on my lap and stared out the window at the retreating darkness.
Thirty minutes later, I got off at my stop.
The snow was coming down even harder.
I emerged from the subway station and headed toward my apartment, snow stinging my face like needles.
The street was quiet. The streetlights made the snow glow white.
I walked, my footsteps soft in the snow.
Almost there.
Two more blocks.
That uneasy feeling came back.
Stronger this time.
I couldn't help but look back.
Still no one.
I bit my lip and quickened my pace.
One block.
The apartment building was ahead. I could see that dim yellow light at the entrance.
I was almost jogging as I rushed into the building, climbed the stairs, and reached the third floor.
The hallway light flickered twice, buzzing.
I walked to my door and pulled out my keys.
Then I saw it.
Scratch marks on the lock.
Clear scratches on the metal surface. Paint scraped off around the keyhole.
My hand froze in midair.
My heartbeat thundered in my ears.
Someone had broken into my apartment.
Someone had been inside my home.
I stepped back, fingers trembling as I reached for my phone in my pocket.
Nothing.
I'd left it at home.
Fuck.
I stood at the door, staring at that tampered lock.
What should I do?
Knock on a neighbor's door?
But this morning I'd heard them leave—sounded like they were going back to their hometown for Christmas.
Call the police?
But my phone wasn't with me.
I should turn around and go downstairs. Should find someone to borrow a phone from. Should call the police.
But my feet wouldn't move.
All my precious things—that worn canvas bag with the design sketches I'd drawn for Misha. That dark green sweater, my favorite one. And... and that Christmas present I never gave.
I bit my lip and slowly put my hand on the doorknob.
Maybe—maybe whoever it was had already left.
Maybe it was just an ordinary burglar who took anything valuable and left.
I took a deep breath and pushed the door open as gently as I could.
The door was unlocked. It opened with a light push.
Inside was pitch black.
I fumbled for the light switch and pressed it.
The lights came on.
Then I gasped.
The couch was slashed open, foam spilling from the cuts, scattered everywhere.
Drawers had been ransacked, my clothes and documents and everything thrown all over the floor.
The coffee table was overturned, glass shattered across the floor.
The wall—
Words were spray-painted on the wall.
Red. Big letters.
"BITCH"
"VOLKOV'S WHORE"
"GET OUT OF NEW YORK"
The bag slipped from my hand.
Herbs spilled across the floor.
"No—"
I backed up, my back hitting the doorframe.
What the hell is happening?!
Suddenly, the bedroom door burst open.
Three masked men rushed out.
All in black, only their eyes visible.
"Told you the bitch would come back, didn't I, boys?" The one in front played with a knife as he advanced toward me, his tone mocking.
All the blood in my body went ice cold. My brain went blank. Instinctively, I screamed and turned to run.
But my foot caught on a lamp on the floor. I fell backward, my back hitting the ground hard enough to make everything go black for a second.
A hand grabbed my arm.
Strong. Fingers clamped around my upper arm like a vise, nails digging into flesh.
Another hand covered my mouth.
The palm was rough, calloused, and reeked of cigarettes—choking me until I almost gagged.
I was hauled up from the floor, my back slammed against the wall. Pain shot through my spine. He pressed his body against me, pinning me to the wall so hard I thought my bones would crack.