Nora Roberts - The Witness

On a half-sob, she stumbled through the kitchen and nearly fell on the tiles as she bolted for the bathroom door.

She risked the half-second it took to lock the door behind her, then fell to her knees in front of the toilet. She vomited sick, slimy pink, and barely managed a breath before she vomited again. Tears streamed out of her eyes as she pulled herself up, using the sink as a lever. Half blind, she ran the water cold, scooped some into her mouth, splashed more on her face.

Shuddering, she lifted her head, saw herself in the mirror—white as wax, with the mascara and eyeliner smudged under her eyes like livid bruises. More of it tracked down her cheeks like black tears.

Shame washed through her even as the next bout of sickness had her dropping to her knees again.

Exhausted, the room spinning around her, she curled on the tiles and wept. She didn’t want anyone to see her like this.

She wanted to go home.

She wanted to die.

She lay shivering, her cheek pressed to the cool tiles until she thought she could risk sitting up. The room stank of sickness and sweat, but she couldn’t go out until she’d cleaned herself up.

She did her best with soap and water, rubbing her face until her skin was raw, pausing every minute or so to lean over, fight off another wave of nausea.

Now she looked pale and splotchy, her eyes glassy and rimmed with red. But her hands trembled, so her attempt to repair her makeup was almost worse than nothing at all.

She’d have to swallow the humiliation. She’d go out on the terrace, in the fresh air, and wait until Ilya came. She’d ask him to take her home, and hoped he’d understand.

He’d never want to see her again. He’d never kiss her again.

Cause and effect, she reminded herself. She’d lied, and lied and lied, and the result was this new mortification, and worse, this glimpse of what might be, only to have it all taken away.

Lowering the lid of the toilet, she sat, clutching her purse, bracing herself for the next step. Wearily, she took off her shoes. What did it matter? Her feet hurt, and Cinderella’s midnight had come.

She walked with as much dignity as she could muster through the kitchen with its big black appliances and blinding white counters. But when she started to make the turn into the living room, she saw Alex and Julie, both naked, having sex on the leather sofa.

Stunned, fascinated, she stood frozen for a moment, watching the tattoos on Alex’s back and shoulders ripple as his hips thrust. Under him, Julie made guttural groaning sounds.

Ashamed of watching, Elizabeth backed up quietly and used the door off the kitchen to access the terrace.

She’d sit in the dark, in the air, until they were finished. She wasn’t a prude. It was just sex, after all. But she wished, very strongly, they’d had that sex behind a closed bedroom door.

Then she wished she had more water for her abused throat, and a blanket because she felt cold—cold and empty and very, very frail.

Then she dozed off, huddled in the chair in a dark corner of the terrace.

She didn’t know what woke her—voices, a clatter—but she came awake, stiff and chilled in the chair. She saw by her watch she’d slept for only about fifteen minutes, but she felt even worse than she had before.

She needed to go home. Cautious, she crept over to the doors to see if Julie and Alex had finished.

She didn’t see Julie at all, but Alex—wearing only black boxers—and two fully dressed men.

Biting her lip, she crept a little closer. Maybe they’d come to tell Alex that Ilya had been delayed. Oh, God, she wished he’d come, take her home.

Remembering what she looked like, she kept to the shadows as she eased toward the door Alex had left open.

“For fuck’s sake, speak English. I was born in Chicago.” Obviously annoyed, Alex stalked over to the bar, poured vodka into a glass. “What do you want, Korotkii, that can’t wait till tomorrow?”

“Why put off till tomorrow? Is that American enough for you?”

The man who spoke had a compact, athletic body. The short sleeves of his black T-shirt strained against his biceps. Tattoos covered his arms. Like Alex, he was blond and handsome. A relation? Elizabeth wondered. The resemblance was subtle but there.

The man with him was bigger, older and stood like a soldier.

“Yeah, you’re a fucking Yankee-Doodle.” Alex tossed back the vodka. “Office hours are closed.”

“And you work so hard.” Korotkii’s smooth voice glided over the words. But under the smooth, the intriguing accent, rough, jagged rock scraped. “It takes hard work, this stealing from your uncle.”

Alex paused in the act of pouring white powder from a clear bag onto a small square mirror on the bar. “What’re you talking about? I don’t steal from Sergei.”

“You steal from the clubs, from the restaurant; you take off the top from the Internet scams, from the whore profits. From all you can reach. You think this isn’t stealing from your uncle? You think he is a fool?”

Sneering, Alexi picked up a thin metal tool and began to tap it against the powder.

Cocaine, Elizabeth realized. Oh, God, what had she done coming here?

“Sergei has my loyalty,” Alexi said as he cut the powder, “and I’ll speak to him about this bullshit tomorrow.”

“You think he doesn’t know how you pay for the Rolex, the Armani, Versace, this house, all your other toys—and your drugs, Alexi? You think he doesn’t know you made a deal with the cops?”

The little tool rattled when Alex dropped it. “I don’t deal with cops.”

He’s lying, Elizabeth thought. She could see it in his eyes, hear it in his voice.

“They picked you up two days ago, for possession.” Korotkii’s gesture toward the cocaine was pure disgust. “And you dealt with them, mudak. Betray your family for your freedom, for your fine life. Do you know what happens to thieves and traitors, Alexi?”

“I’ll talk to Sergei. I’ll explain. I had to give them something, but it was bullshit. Just bullshit. I played them.”

“No, Alexi, they played you. And you lost.”

“I’ll talk to Sergei.” When he backed up, the second man moved—fast for his girth—trapped Alexi’s arms behind his back.

Fear lived on his face, and in fear he spoke in Russian. “Don’t do this. Yakov, we’re cousins. Our mothers are sisters. We share blood.”

“You’re a disgrace to your mother, to your blood. On your knees.”

“No. Don’t.”

The second man shoved Alexi to the ground.

“Don’t. Please. We’re blood. Give me a chance.”

“Yes, beg. Beg for your worthless life. I would let Yegor break you to pieces, but your uncle said to show mercy, for his sister’s sake.”

“Please. Have mercy.”

“This is your mercy.” Korotkii drew a gun from the small of his back, pressed the barrel to Alexi’s forehead and fired.

Elizabeth’s legs gave way. She fell to her knees, her hand clamped over her mouth to trap the scream.

Korotkii spoke softly as he put the gun to Alexi’s temple, fired twice more.

His expression never changed, held like a mask as he murdered. Then it sharpened as he looked up and toward the kitchen.

“I don’t feel good, Alex. I need to lie down, or maybe we should—Who are you?”

“Ah, fuck your mother,” he muttered, and shot Julie twice, where she stood. “Why didn’t we know he had his whore with him?”

The second man walked over to Julie, shook his head. “This is a new one. Very young.”

“She won’t be older.”

Elizabeth’s vision grayed. It was a dream. A nightmare. Because of the drinking and being sick. She’d wake up any second. Huddled in the dark, she stared at Alex. There was hardly any blood, she noted. If it was real, wouldn’t there be more blood?