Page 100 of Letters From Victor

He lifted his hands in a lazy shrug. “Didn’t mean to ruffle your delicate feathers.” He dropped his hands and his grin. “Where’s Cardello?”

“Mr. Cardello?” I repeated, feigning confusion. “I haven’t worked for him in months. Why on earth would I know where he is?”

Kowalski stood, rolling his thick neck with a slow crack. He took a few slow but deliberate steps toward me, and I instinctively backed away. “You’re cute when you play dumb,” he said. “But we both know you’re not that stupid.”

“I’m not playing,” I said, my voice smaller than I intended.

He stopped just close enough for his shadow to swallow mine, his smirk curling at the edges. This close, his cologne was overpowering, like he had bathed in it. He was all chest and shoulders, his belly pressing against his belt like an afterthought. Even though he was slightly shorter than me, he could overpower me in an instant if he wanted to.

“Try again, doll face.” His voice grated like gravel underfoot.

I swallowed against the dryness in my throat, the tang of fear sharp on my tongue. “You have to believe me,” I said, desperation creeping into my tone. “I don’t know where he is. He doesn’t tell me anything.”

“Call him,” Kowalski said, low and firm. “Tell him to come see you.”

I shook my head. “If I don’t know where he is, how can I?—”

“Humor me,” he growled.

Slowly, I started toward the phone in the foyer. My mind raced ahead of me, grasping for any plan that might save me—save us all. Could I scream? The neighbors were elderly—their hearing weak, their steps slower. Even if they called the police, would help arrive in time?

The plush carpet melted into polished hardwood as I reached the telephone table. I coiled the cord in my grip like a waiting snake.

“Go on,” Kowalski said. He had drifted closer, standing at the threshold between the living room and foyer. His hands rested in his pockets, but his posture was anything but relaxed.

I lifted the receiver to my ear, hesitated, then dialed Victor’s downtown apartment. The line rang. No answer. A cool wave of relief swept through me, dampening the feverish panic clawing at my mind. If Victor didn’t answer, he was safe—for now. But a hollow ache followed quickly on its heels. I needed Victor’s strength, his certainty. I needed him to tell me what to do.

I set the receiver back in its cradle and turned to Kowalski. “There’s no answer. He’s not home.”

Kowalski’s eyes narrowed, and he took a deliberate step forward. The hardwood groaned beneath his weight, the sound slicing through the stillness of the house. “Try again,” he said, his voice sharp as a blade. “And call every place he might be.”

My hand hovered over the phone, fingers itching with the impulse to grab the receiver and hurl it at him. A childish, futile instinct. I was trapped in my own home by a man with nothing to lose.

I dialed the office. No answer. My pulse thrummed in my throat as I tried the Malibu house. Nothing. Only the hollow, ringing silence of unanswered calls.

Kowalski shrugged. “No rush. I’m more than happy to wait him out. He’ll turn up sooner or later.” He cocked his head, watching me like a cat toying with a wounded bird. “In the meantime, why don’t you get me that cup of coffee you stiffed me on when we first met?”

My mind flashed back to that encounter in Victor’s office. The filth—moral or otherwise—rolling off him was just as pungent now as it had been then. “If it’s coffee you’re after,there’s a perfectly good diner down the street,” I said, hoping against hope that he’d take the hint and leave.

“Cute,” he drawled, stepping closer. “But I think I’ll stay put. Nice place you’ve got here. All alone…?”

A slow chill coiled in my stomach. There was no way out. I had to play along, buy time. “I’ll put on a pot,” I said, turning toward the kitchen.

Kowalski didn’t follow, but his presence pressed against me like a shadow. Every move took a calculated effort not to rush—anything to mask the sheer terror clawing at my ribs.

I switched on the kitchen light. The percolator sat waiting on the stove, as unbothered as ever. I pried open a tin of coffee, inhaling the rich, earthy aroma. For a fleeting moment, it almost felt like any other evening—until reality slithered back in.

The slow thud of footsteps on hardwood made me freeze. Kowalski lounged in the doorway, one shoulder pressed against the frame. “Funny,” he mused, “I always wondered what a classy dame like you saw in a thug like Cardello.”

I measured out the coffee, forcing my hands to stay steady. “It’s just a job,” I said. “Or it was.”

He chuckled, low and thick, like he had gravel in his throat. “Sure. Just a job.” He let the silence spool out, long enough to make my skin prickle.

I filled the percolator with water and set it back on the stove. “It’ll take a few minutes,” I said, gaze fixed on the burner—anywhere but him.

“So tell me, sweetheart, how much stuff did he have to buy you before you warmed his bed? Or is that how you got promoted from the steno pool?”

I gripped the edge of the counter, imagining it was his thick neck. My chest constricted. “You have a vivid imagination,” I said, my voice taut as a piano wire.

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