Page 20 of Lethal Abduction

Abby left without taking a single damned thing except the small bag she had with her. Not one painting. Not one sketch.

Not even those she did of me, which are still pinned to her easel, the corners beginning to curl with age.

I sit on the couch, head in my hands, and light a cigarette. I gave them up years ago, but since Abby left, I don’t see much point in trying to behave myself. I reach under the coffee table, surprised when my hand finds a bottle of the vodka I always used to leave here.

I stare at the label.

Graf vodka.

My favorite brand, the only one Roman and I ever drink. I pull the top off, even though I know it’s a really bad fucking idea.

Why did she buy it, if she knew I’d never drink it?

I throw my phone down on the coffee table, staring at its black screen. I don’t want to tap it. Don’t want to look at the date.

I already know what it says.

I’ve been dreading this day for three fucking months.

And in Australia, the day is half done already.

I kick off my boots and lie back on the couch, waiting for the dawn of what I already know is about to be the longest day of my life.

4

Abby

Leetham, Western Australia

Present Day

My three months are up.

It’s all I’ve been able to think about since I woke up, and throughout my shift at the pub. Although it’s midafternoon in outback Australia, in Spain it’s still the middle of the night.

Which means that I have a few hours left to decide what to do.

I never knew it could be this hard to make a decision. And I’ve never left such an important decision so late. I keep reaching for my phone, then putting it back down again.

And not just because I don’t know what to do about Dimitry.

Darya messaged yesterday to say she’s gone into labor. I’ve typed a dozen messages and deleted every one of them.

I have no idea what to say to her either.

But I have to work it out fast.

There’s no way I’m not calling her when the baby is born, even if it breaks my heart to hear her voice.

On top of that, the damned Banderos are still here. They’ve come into the pub the past three afternoons for a drink, and my paranoia has risen with every day they’ve stayed in town. Right now they’re sitting in the corner, their heads together over the table, engaged in some low, tense conversation that makes me feel distinctly uneasy.

The door opens, and to my utter shock, in walks Susan Chalmers, my mother.

“Hello, darling.” Mum adds a touch of class to any room she’s in, even the bar of the Leetham Exchange. Dressed in a neat blue cotton shirt tucked into denims, brown leather belt and boots, pearls, pink lipstick, and an impeccable blonde French twist, she looks like she stepped right out of the pages of AustralianCountry Livingmagazine.

“Mum.” I smile tentatively. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

“I had to come into town to pick up something for Dad, so I thought I’d call in and offer you a lift home. Today is your half-day shift, isn’t it?”

---