Page 66 of Arranged Control
The stench of blood and shit.
I tighten my grip on the gun and creep to the sliding door. Through the glass, I see him slumped to the side in his favorite chair.
The ground’s stained red. A thick, sticky pool.
My heart rate doubles. All the hairs on my neck stand straight on end.
I push open the door, gun ready.
Nothing moves.
I keep out, stepping over the blood. I keep Oliver in my peripheral as I make sure nobody’s out here waiting for me, but the place is empty.
I turn to him.
Oliver’s throat is cut. Somehow, I knew that’s what I’d find. It’s sliced clean through, professional and efficient.
But this is different.
His mouth is hanging open. His jaw is broken, snapped down wide.
And his tongue is missing.
“Fucking Oliver,” I murmur softly. His face is locked in a permanent scream. His eyes are unfocused, and the terror of his last moment is clear in his expression.
This happened recently. Within the last hour, I’d guess. He’s still slightly warm, and decomposition hasn’t started yet. No flies or bugs nearby.
I’m about to get the fuck out of there when I notice something clutched in his hand. It’s tucked between two fingers.
A piece of paper on thick cardstock with my name on the front.
Heart hammering, I pull it away from his dead grip.
Seamus, he deserved worse. I made it fast. If you want to speak with me, come to Brighton Beach tomorrow. Molchanie.
Under the name is an address.
I read it over three times before shoving the note in my pocket.
Oliver died because of me.
And Molchanie knew I was coming here. They beat me to him, probably by an hour at most. This whole spectacle was left here as a message.
And now they want to talk.
I race back through Oliver’s house, pausing only to grab the scarves. Cops will show up eventually, and I don’t want questions. I throw myself into my car and race back to Alina’s apartment. I try calling, but she doesn’t answer. I’m cursing, pissed like crazy and worried. I park out front, not caring if it gets towed, and sprint into the lobby. The elevator’s painfully slow, and I’m losing my mind by the time I finally make it to our front door.
I burst through, gun ready.
Only to be met with music.
Loud, blasting music.
And Alina in the kitchen, humming to herself, mopping the floor and dancing.
I stare, my heart slamming in my throat. I was so worried she’d be hurt. But here she is, wiggling and smiling, having a good time.
“Alina,” I call over the music before striding over to the speaker. I turn it off, and she spins around, pouting.
