Page 62 of Last Hand

I pull back, brushing Mila’s tangled hair from her forehead. Her eyes, wide, search mine for the truth. I’ve never been good at hiding things—Leone always said my face gave away every card in my hand—for her, I try.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Anya asks, her voice steadier than I expect from a girl her age. “You looked… scared.”

I almost laugh. Scared doesn’t begin to cover it. I nod, forcing my lips into what I hope passes for a reassuring smile.

“I am now,” I say. “And we need to get this place secured before it gets completely dark.”

I rise slowly, steadying myself against the ancient wooden table. My legs feel like they’re made of wet newspaper. I move to the door, which hangs awkwardly from one hinge after my dramatic entrance. I shut it as best I can and jam a chair under the knob. It won’t hold for long if someone comes looking, but it’s something.

“Will that keep the bad men out?” Mila asks, her eyes fixed on the chair.

I want to tell her yes. I want to promise her that nothing bad will happen, that we’ll find Mom, that everything will be okay. I can’t bring myself to pile on more lies. Not when their lives depend on understanding exactly how much danger we’re in.

“It’ll slow them down,” I say instead. “And we’ll hear them coming.”

I survey the cabin, memories threatening to surface with every familiar detail.

“I need to hide you both,” I say, gaze scanning the room. “We don’t know if Igor followed us. Or if… Mom…”

The words nearly choke me; I can’t afford to cry. Not now. Not when tears might blind me to what’s coming.

“Mom?” Mila asks, her brow furrowing.

I chew my lip, realizing my slip. They don’t know about me yet. About my connection to this. To them. How could they? Until three weeks ago, I was just someone who was staying and visiting with them. Now I’m the only thing standing between these girls and the men who want me dead.

“Your mom,” I correct, not having time to explain when I hear the gravel outside crunching under tires. Fuck!

I move to the kitchen area, running my fingers along the worn countertop. The cabin is small—just three rooms plus the bathroom. Nowhere to hide, that wouldn’t be the first place someone would look. Except…

My eyes drift to the old bedroom as I hear cars pull up outside, lights coming inside through floral curtains.

“Come here,” I whisper, beckoning them over. “I have a place for you.”

I lead them to the closet, pulling open the door. The panel still moves when I press it, swinging inward to reveal a dark, cramped space beyond.

“You’ll be safe in here,” I tell them, gesturing for them to step inside. “No one will find you in here.”

Anya hesitates, looking from the dark space to me with suspicion in her eyes. “What about you?”

“I’ll be right outside,” I promise. “If someone comes, I need you both to stay quiet. Not a sound, no matter what you hear. You only come out when I say so. Not a second before, okay?”

Mila nods solemnly. Anya is already climbing in without complaint, pulling Mila after her. I hand Anya the backpack,then the flashlight I found while digging through her backpack when we needed a break in the forest. I flick the iton.

“Only use it if you have to,” I warn. “The battery won’t last long.”

I kiss their heads before I close the panel. Then I step back into the cabin, knowing I can’t fit in there with them while wondering what to do. Suddenly I find myself alone. So I wait. Because I don’t know who’s coming through that door next—Igor… or Leone. And I need to be ready for either.

I glance around wildly, searching for a weapon, an escape route, anything. The kitchen knives are gone. The back door is warped shut in its frame. My eyes land on the worn floorboards near the kitchen table—the ones that always creaked when I would sneak out of the closet for snacks. I drop to my knees, fingers finding the edge of a warped plank. It lifts easier than it should; years of rot and neglect are finally working in my favor.

The space below is black, the musty smell of damp earth rising to meet me. I don’t have time to think about what might be living down there. The headlights grow brighter, cutting through the cabin’s dusty windows in harsh white slashes. I ease myself into the crawlspace, my body barely fitting through the narrow opening. I pull the floorboards down over me just as car doors slam outside.

Darkness swallows me whole. I curl into myself, trying to make my body smaller, trying not to think about the spiders that are surely crawling across my skin right now. The dirt beneath me is cold and damp, soaking through my clothes.

I hold my breath as boots crunch on the porch steps. The door crashes open—my chair defense tossed aside like it’s nothing. Flashlight beams dance across the floorboards above my head, sending thin rays of light through the cracks. Dust rains down on my face.

“Find her,” a voice growls, and my blood turns to ice. Mikhail. Not Leone. Not Igor. Worse. So much worse.

Boots stomp across the floor directly above me. I press myself deeper into the dirt, praying the boards don’t give way. They kick over furniture, rip open cabinets, and shatter what little remains whole in this broken place.

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