Let Me Burn by Elodie Colt
Nathan
Iknock back my fifth espresso at eight in the morning. Nonalcoholic, this time, without the standard shot of Amaretto. Figured it was smart not to kill my brain cells all at once and keep my six-pack for a little longer.
The caffeine overdose barely energizes me, but at least it keeps me from falling asleep right there on my desk. Sleeping pills don’t do the job anymore, and until I’ve found Ella, I doubt I’ll get any rest soon.
Banging down my empty espresso cup, I glance at the big, Ultra HD flatscreen TV installed on the opposite wall. I told Brooke I needed one for client presentations. Until now, I’ve only used it to watch the news. Every time they report a murder or a rape, I’m suffering a stroke, and every time they announce the victim’s name, I blow out a long, relieved exhale.
And still…
I’m ninety-nine percent sure that Luka won’t harm a hair on Ella’s head, but that doesn’t mean she’s safe. What if he kidnapped her without anyone knowing? What if he killed more of her dragonflies, scaring her to death? Hell, what if Ella is sick of it all and decides to put an end to this, sending a bullet into her own head?
The du-dum sound coming from my laptop announces an incoming email, and I drag my gaze back to the screen. Vincent is still in Vegas to seal another deal, and now, all his work lands on my desk. Brooke already gave me an earful for ‘leaving him in that damn city’ and not dragging him to the airport with me. As if I had any control over Vincent Crawford. I tried to pacify her and told her he wouldn’t do anything stupid, like rob a casino or something, but I have my doubts. I can only hope he’s not planning his next Ocean’s Eleven move.
My phone rings with an incoming call, and I pick it up from my desk. Unknown caller ID. Could it be Ella?
My heart makes a flic-flac, but I keep my voice neutral when I take the call.
“Nathan Crawford, hello?”
A train whooshing by and the sirens of an ambulance blare through the speaker before a monotone male voice responds, “It’s James.”
I straighten in my seat, fetching the remote control, and muting the TV. Just at that moment, someone knocks on the door, and Nick waltzes in. I motion for him to be quiet.
“You’ve got news?” I ask.
“I’ll send you a location,” is James’ short-cut reply. “Meet me in an hour.”
The line goes dead before I can utter a syllable, and just as I remove my phone from my ear, my screen lights up with a Google Maps link. Damn, that guy is terse, as if he’s got a daily quota of words he’s allowed to speak.
“Who was that?” Nick wants to know when I gawk at my phone.
“My only hope to find Ella.” I fling my phone onto my desk.
Nick slouches down in one of the two seats opposite me, his gaze swerving over the five empty espresso cups aligned on the edge of my desk.
“A friend at the NYPD?” he asks.
“No. A friend of Vincent.” He blinks at me, so I elaborate with, “A private investigator.”
More like an undercover agent for the US government, but I decide to keep this bit to myself.
Nick sends me a suspicious glance. “I don’t like these friends of Dad. They all seem to be connected to that fucking heist. They are a bad influence.”
I snort. “You sound like Brooke.”
“She’s got a point.”
“Vincent just did me a solid, is all.”
Not that I want to defend him, but without his connections to Wayde and James, I’d be at a dead end.
Nick purses his lips. “You don’t think he’s planning the next robbery?”
I heave a sigh. “God help me, but if he so much as pinches a dime, I’ll turn him in personally.”
“A spy?” Nick asks after a moment of silence. “I remember you saying you would never go that far.”
“I don’t have a choice,” is my somber reply. “We’ve got reason to believe that Luka didn’t heed our warning and came back. Ella is in danger, and I’ll be damned if I don’t do everything in my power to keep her out of harm’s way.”
He nods to my phone. “And that dude found her?”
“He didn’t say. I’m going to meet him now.”
“Before you go,”—he pulls out two velvet boxes and snaps them open—“which one should I put on Janice’s finger?”
Rapping my fingers against my thigh, I balance my gaze between the two rings. The left one is a 2.0 carat, round cut solitaire diamond in 18-karat yellow gold, the right one a platinum ring with a 1.8-carat, princess cut rock in a pavé setting. Both pretty, both sparkling, both expensive.
“That one.” I point to the ring in his right hand.
“Really? You’re sure I shouldn’t take the gold ring?”
“No,” I say curtly.
Nick furrows his eyebrows. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
I slap my hands on my desk and rise from my chair. “It means that I can’t make this decision for you.”
I’m an asshole. No matter how hard I try, I can’t be impartial. Nick’s wedding is in two months, and I’ve been the opposite of helpful with the preparations. Every conversation about bridesmaids, flower arrangements, or guest lists makes me want to kick something. I want to be happy for him, but how can I feel joy when my heart is nothing but a chunk of worry, fear, and despair?
“Christ…” Nick huffs with a derisive chuckle, slamming the boxes shut and launching to his feet.
“Nick—” I start when he turns his back to me, but he just flips me the bird and marches out.
The pang of guilt only lasts one second before my attention reels back to my appointment with James, and I grab my things before I hurry out the door. I’ve left about thirty emails unanswered, but they will have to wait until later.
Just as I arrive at the elevator, the doors slide open and I glide inside. I check the envelope hidden in my breast pocket, quickly counting the bills. James will want the second half of his payment before he offers up anything, and, unsurprisingly, he only accepts cash.
Of course, he wanted information. Squeezed every drop of knowledge from me. Forced me to peel away all of Ella’s layers. Every snippet I handed him—what I knew about her life, her fears, her dreams—pricked my skin like a needle until it felt as if I were caged in an Iron Maiden torture device. He sucked me dry and listened without so much as a blink, filing it all away in his genius brain.
After our last meeting, I let Wayde do a background check on the mysterious James Burke, but as expected, the guy is a myth. No passport, no birth certificate, no records. It’s as if he never existed. Chances are James Burke isn’t even his real name, but he could call himself Lady Gaga for all I care, as long as he can deliver.
With purposeful strides, I cross the gallery and step out into the rain. It’s just a drizzle coming from the dark clouds above, but the wind lashes tiny drops of water against my cheeks. Women bump into each other with their umbrellas, afraid to ruin their perfect hairstyles, while I just rake a hand over my scalp, knowing my hair will look better than before. It’s not for nothing a model scout already asked me to become the next Garnier testimonial, but I see no reason to start posing for shampoo brands. I can sell a Harry Winston necklace and make more money than I would get for shooting fifty commercials.
Picking my way through the people crawling on the sidewalk, I head toward the Manhattan Bridge underpass. Pedestrians, cyclists, and skateboarders seek shelter in the tunnel as the drizzle turns into heavy rain, and soon water puddles on the ground, running in rivulets down the graffiti walls. I ignore the perplexed looks as I prance in my Hugo Boss attire over bird droppings and rotting cigarette butts. If I had it my way, I’d relocate this meeting to a place that doesn’t reek of mildew and urine, but I’m not calling the shots here.
I scan my surroundings, trying to spot a square jaw and sleeked back hair, but it’s only when I reach the end of the underpass that I notice a strange dude with a black hoodie leaning against a rusty pillar. The cloud of smoke hovering around him suggests he’s enjoying a cigarette as he looks out at the East River causing ripples in the wind.
I approach him with calculated steps, the hollow tock of my shoes ricocheting off the concrete walls as I halt next to him. He doesn’t acknowledge my arrival, just continues to chew on his lung cancer stem and stare off into space.
“You’ve got the cash?” is his way of greeting.
I inconspicuously pull the envelope from my breast pocket and hand it to him. He flicks his cigarette away, opens the envelope, and briefly feathers through the bills. When he’s assured that I haven’t lost my count, he folds it in half and shoves it into his jeans pocket.
“Did you find her?” I ask when impatience gets the better of me, keeping my voice low.
“I have,” he says in a matter-of-fact tone. “She’s currently staying with her sister on Coney Island.”
My fists unclench, and I deflate like a balloon. Coney Island. Thank God, she’s still in New York. I already feared I had to fly to Russia and get her out of Siberia or something.
James’ gaze flickers over to me. “Did you know that Ella Jenkins wasn’t her maiden name?”
I scratch a spot on my chin. “I had a hunch.”
“Elenka Jendarov,” he reveals at last, and I briefly close my eyes as I soak up the letters. Finally, I’ve got her real name. “She changed it before she moved to the states to escape her stalker. She’s got a younger sister, Zoya, who lives with her wife, Holly Benson, in a small house on Coney Island. They both work at Holly’s tattoo parlor on Brighton Beach boulevard.”
My gaze turns inward as the puzzle pieces click together.
“What else?” I prompt, eager to learn more.
He rubs a hand over his stubble. “Her sister moved to the states early. Mommy got breast cancer and Daddy dearest cleared off before she took her last breath. Ella Jenkins got herself a new identity and hopped onto the next plane to New York the day after her mother died.”
I watch a ball of crumpled newspaper rolling like a tumbleweed over the dirty concrete. Ella sacrificed everything to get her freedom, scrambled for a victory, but in the end, it was all in vain.
“She reported multiple stalking offenses against Luka Sokolov back in Russia,” James goes on. “Gathered pictures and videos as evidence, but he turned the tables and complained that she was harassing him. They dropped the charges.”
Jesus Christ, our legal system is a joke. My next investment will go into bribing some hot shots to remodel our jurisdiction.
“Did you see him?” I ask through clenched teeth.
He doesn’t say anything for a moment, scuffing his shoe on the ground. “I did.”
“Did he do anything to her? Did he—”
“He kept his distance,” he interrupts me in a clipped tone. “And before you ask, the answer is no, Crawford.”
I curse under my breath, raking a hand through my wet hair. “Money isn’t an issue.”
“But the Russian government is,” he hisses. “No hitman jobs for civilians, remember? The deal was that one job and nothing more. You want this guy dead, you take him out yourself.”
He retrieves a piece of paper and slaps it into my palm.
“Zoya Benson’s address,” he says. “Good luck, Crawford.”
And with that, he turns tail and sneaks off, blending in with the skateboarders so fast, I lose track of him within seconds.
I glance down at the paper in my hands to memorize the address and make my way back to Crawford Crescent. I don’t want to show up at Ella’s doorstep in my business attire. Too impersonal.
‘You don’t even know her real name’,Luka had said.
Now I do, fucker.
Half an hour later, I’m on my way to Coney Island. While I steer my BMW through the afternoon traffic, I mentally go over everything James told me. Now, it makes sense why Ella wanted to protect her anonymity at all costs. Too bad I’d made it my mission to raze it to the ground.
After taking the turn to Surf Avenue, I slow down, my hands strangling the steering wheel the closer I get to my destination. Fixing my concentration on the house numbers, I let my car roll down the street until a small, white-painted house with cross cables comes into view.
I halt at the opposite side of the street from where I have a good vantage point, right next to a park, and kill the engine. A familiar blue Toyota parks in the driveway. I remember Ella disappearing in a car like this one when I ran after her that first time I recognized her. Craning my neck, I peek around the house to see if I can spot a black Honda Hornet, but there’s no bike in sight.
Rapping my fingers against the steering wheel, I munch on my lip. Maybe she’s not home, but it looks like her sister is. It wouldn’t hurt to have a chat with her first. I could use some backup, just in case Ella turns into full stubborn-mode again and refuses to hear me out.
“Showtime,” I mumble to myself and slide out to make my way up the driveway. When I arrive at the door, I take a moment to get my shit together.
You’ve sweated blood, bent over backward, and shelled out six grand to find this place. You better not fuck this up, Nathan.
Taking a deep breath, I ring the bell. My stomach somersaults when I pick up shuffling footsteps before someone answers the door. A small woman with short, black hair and tattoos crawling up her neck appears on the threshold.
She perches against the door frame, crossing her rocker-style boots at the ankles. Now that I’m face-to-face with her, I can see the similarities between her and Ella. Same lips, same skin tone, same symmetrical face.
“Yes?” she asks, her tone bored yet wary.
“Hello, uhm… Zoya Benson?”
She just narrows her eyes at me and pops her chewing gum when another female voice hollers from inside, “Who is it, honey?”
A second later, a cute girl with short-cropped, bleach-blonde hair skips down the staircase, her colorful skirt flaring around her legs, and snakes an arm around the other one’s hip.
The blonde’s eyes go wide. “Oh, you’re Nathan Crawford.”
I blink at her. People recognize me all the time, but now that I’m close to her, she seems strangely familiar. “Do I know you?”
She grins. “I’m Holly Benson. I was working at your gallery in Manhattan a few years ago.”
Now, that she’s saying it, it triggers a memory. “Oh, yeah, I remember.”
Zoya’s gaze flickers between the two of us before it settles on me. “Are you here to offer my sister another interpretation gig?”
I swallow, wiping my sweaty hands on my jeans. “I’m here to meet your sister, yes,” I say hesitantly, “but this has nothing to do with business. Is she here, by any chance?”
“No, she went to—” Holly starts, but Zoya puts a hand on her shoulder, pinning me with a wry look.
“Are you two dating, or what?”
She’s suspicious. Good.
“Something like that,” I mumble, sliding my hands into my pockets.
She scoffs. “Busted, buddy. Believe it or not, but I know for a fact that my sister isn’t dating anyone, let alone a Crawford.”
“She’s not dating a Crawford,” I argue, “but… she’s been dating Ross.”
As soon as the name leaves my lips, both give me a bugged-eyed look, their mouths popping open.
“Youare Ross?” Zoya asks, stunned. “Ella’s Silent Sins match?”
I click my tongue. “Yep.”
The two shoot each other a pointed look but make no move to let me in.
“Listen, you have no idea what I went through to find her,” I explain. “I know she quit the program because of Luka Sokolov. I want to help her. I want to let her know that…” I meant it when I said I loved her. “Please, give me a few minutes, and I’ll explain everything.”
Zoya checks my face for a moment longer before she steps back to invite me in.
Inside Ella’s home…
Wherever you are, dragonfly girl, you will come back.
And when you do, I’ll be waiting for you.