But then I hear the chain clank. The doorknob turns once more.
And then the door swings inward.
Esme just stands there, staring at me as though she’s confronting a ghost.
“Artem?” she says at last. Her voice trembles like she’s not sure whether to cry or scream.
“Can I come in?” I ask. It’s taking all of my willpower to stay cool.
She drops her hand and moves back, letting me in without a word.
I’m not fooling myself into thinking that she wants me in her space, though. I’ve taken advantage of her shock to get this far.
I have a feeling that shock is about to fade very, very quickly.
“You found me,” she whispers.
“It took me some time, too.”
I scan around the apartment—if you could even call it that.
It’s comically tiny. The kitchen and living room are basically one space, but there are two doors in the left-hand wall.
One is open—the bathroom.
The second door is closed. Which makes it a bedroom.
And if the living area is empty…
The bedroom is where my son lies.
“He’s sleeping,” she says quickly, noticing where my gaze is focused. “I just got him to go down.”
I turn to her, my gaze is sharp, angry… accusing.
“Phoenix,” I murmur.
I have the satisfaction of seeing her flinch back with shock.
“How did you know?” she asks.
“You left quite the trail behind you.”
“Who did you speak to?”
“Who didn’t I speak to?” I counter. “There was Sara, Geoffrey, Maisie, Tonya… Did I leave anyone out?”
Her eyes glaze over at my tone. She pivots away from me and hugs her arms across her chest.
I wince at her obvious fear.
I had planned on holding back, taking it easy on her.
These past few months can’t have been easy. I can see the truth of that in her excessively thin frame, her hollowed-in cheek bones and the dark circles under her eyes.
She’s still as beautiful as ever. Nothing can destroy that.
But her beauty is more haunting than glowing now.