“Hey,” Cam said, dragging my attention from the window. “You still want my advice? Forget about EasyClean. He isn’t anybody a nice mom like you ought to be messing with. Neither is Mr. Z.” Cam withdrew a flimsy-looking flip phone from his pocket. It vibrated as he passed it to me. “This is for you.”
Before I could ask him who it was, he slid his hoodie over his head and slipped out the door. As he slunk across my lawn, a dark green Jaguar with tinted windows lurched to a stop at the curb in front of him. Cam opened the back door and ducked inside. Vero flipped him off from the front stoop as the Jaguar sped off.
The disposable phone continued to vibrate as Vero came inside and shut the door. Unknown Caller flashed across the screen. I thumbed it open, putting the call on speakerphone so both of us could hear.
“Who is this?” I asked.
“Greetings, Ms. Donovan.” Ekatarina Rybakov’s voice was all business. “Mr. Zhirov regrets that he could not deliver the package himself, but I believe the contents are self-explanatory.”
Vero held the phone as I tore open the wax seal, thumbing through the pages inside the envelope. A title and registration from the car dealership were inside, along with a bill of sale for a Superleggera Volante in Modern Minimalist （black）。 The payment was made in full. In cash. By Feliks Zhirov. Vero took the sales slip from me, her eyes wide.
“Why are you giving me this?” I asked through a thin breath. Though as I read the name on the vehicle’s registration and title, I knew. Owner: FD Independent Consulting, LLC.
FD. Finlay Donovan.
Feliks had tied my name to a fake corporation. To a car he’d paid for.
I had become one of Feliks’s shell companies. At any point, Feliks could tip off the police and Nick would jump down the rabbit hole and find me. Feliks knew exactly what Nick and I had been doing after our dinner at Kvass.
And this was a message in return: Feliks Zhirov owned me.
“My client has been watching you for quite some time.” I could practically hear Kat’s mouth twist with amusement. “You must have made quite an impression.”
“What does that mean?”
“I think that means you get to keep the car,” Vero whispered.
“I don’t want the car,” I said, yanking the papers back.
Vero’s hand chased them. “Yes, you do.”
“The car is yours, of course,” Kat said as I took the phone from Vero. “But unless you want to risk certain information coming to light, I would strongly discourage you from driving it.”
Kat was right. One minor traffic violation and a cop would pull the registration. There were too many red flags. The car would have to be scrapped. Every single piece of it would have to be destroyed. Maybe Ramón could put it in one of those giant crushers. Then we could burn the paperwork and pretend it never existed.
“What does Feliks want from me?” I asked. He knew everything about me, which meant he knew I couldn’t possibly repay him the value of that car.
“For now, only your silence,” Kat replied. “Good day, Ms. Donovan.”
I should have felt relieved when the call disconnected. The car was handled. No need to bother Irina with the whole sordid story of how we got it. No need to make up a fake one for Alan, and no need to pay the money back. But two lingering questions weighed heavily on me as I slid the papers back inside the broken seal of the envelope: How had Feliks known about the car, and what had for now meant?
* * *
I tugged on my jacket and shoes and crossed the street to Mrs. Haggerty’s house, part of me hoping she wouldn’t answer when I knocked. That she hadn’t been home to notice Cam or the dark green Jaguar that had picked him up.
The chain lock rattled and a dead bolt slid open. Mrs. Haggerty opened her door, squinting at me as she reached for her glasses on their slim gold chain. She still looked confused, even after she lifted them to her eyes.
“Hi, Mrs. Haggerty,” I said quickly, hoping to avoid any uncomfortable small talk, which usually involved her criticizing the brief and humiliating moments of my life she could make out from behind her kitchen curtains. “I was wondering if you remembered seeing someone at my house yesterday evening. A police officer?”
“You mean the one that’s been parked outside your house for days?”
“No, a different one.”
“This street has been far too busy,” she said with an aggrieved harrumph. “I’m lucky if I can even keep track.”
“This would have been right around dinnertime. He’s about this tall,” I said, holding my hand above my head. “Blond hair, blue eyes, in his early forties. He says he spoke with you.”