Page 96 of Aftertaste

Part of him—a small, annoying part that still loved Maura, that always would—wanted to cross the room and follow her. To pull her into his arms. To forgive her. To believe that she really did love him, and that it was true about the ghosts, all the things she’d said. That part just wanted things to be okay again.

But another part of him—the part that didn’t want to be an idiot—wondered what kind of mess she was walking into. Like, how, exactly, had Everleigh gotten there? Was she dangerous, like he’d long suspected? Maura wasn’t exactly the poster child for solid decision-making, and if something went down—if Everleigh hurt her—would he be responsible if he sent her off alone?

Because most of him—the part winning this internal argument—was still too numb, too raw, too angry to be in the same room as Maura, let alone follow her into some wild-ghost chase through the bowels of the MTA. She had lied to him! Used him. Preyed upon his deepest vulnerabilities, seen his desperate desire to be loved and dangled that carrot to her own ends. For all he knew, this was just another manipulation. Some ploy to get him to forgive her. He wouldn’t let her fool him twice.

“Stan? Please?”

“I—”

But before Kostya could answer, his phone exploded with sound, making them both jump. A text. Viktor.

Kostik, where are you?

DUH Kitchen, he shot back.Why?

Have urgent business.Viktor pinged him.We coming down.

Down? Were they already here?

“Viktor’s on his way,” he told Maura, his voice carefully detached. “To the kitchen.”

“What?Now?”

“He says it’s urgent.”

“Well, tell him to wait! This is literally life-and-death.”

Kostya looked at her, weighing the choice.

Maura or Viktor. Maura or DUH. Maura or clairgustance.

So many times, he’d chosen her. Over Frankie. Over himself. Always her. And she’d betrayed him.

“We open tomorrow. And my boss needs to see me.”

She blinked at him, pain shivering across her face.

“You’re really gonna open the restaurant? After everything I just told you?”

He didn’t answer, just set his jaw.

She nodded once, resigned, then climbed through the window onto the platform.

He hesitated, then called after her, “Be careful, okay? With your sister.”

But she didn’t reply, the click of her heels already swallowed by the dark.

A MINUTE LATER,he heard a different pattern of steps.

A pair of Givenchy loafers—Viktor’s—appeared on the stairs. These were followed by black leather sneakers—the workingman’s shoe—and a pair of orange Air Jordans, both sets of feet moving slowly, gingerly, as if their owners were carrying a couch.

Once Viktor’s head appeared, Kostya opened his mouth to ask him what, exactly, was so urgent, but he shut it again once he got a look at the package the other two were hauling in. A thick, black garbage bag, secured on either end with duct tape, the contents inside stiff and unwieldy. They flung it unceremoniously down atop one of the clean prep stations and looked to Viktor, who was taking a leisurely drag of a cigarette, for further instruction.

Kostya recognized them.

Black leather sneakers was The Comrade (real name: Stanislav Boroholshik), the bodyguard Kostya had met at Viktor’s apartment, complete with navy track suit, large, round Rolex, and restingI-kill-you-nowface.

Air Jordans was a tech guy Kostya had seen around the restaurant—Max,or maybe Mark—who’d installed the Wi-Fi, the security cameras, the alarm system, and who seemed to be busily disabling those features from his phone.

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