GILBERT

That night—my sleep cycle is soooo fucked—I stand in my bedroom, unsure what I should be doing. Arthur was exhausted after the clinic trip, so she's been asleep on the couch since we got home this afternoon. She hasn't eaten anything but that banana earlier; she'll be starving when she wakes up.

I head downstairs as quietly as a tall albino German can. I'm thinking about Arthur's story, all the stuff she told Dominik, and me. I wish I'd been there when that stepfather hurt her. Then I could rip his small intestine out and strangle him with it.

In the kitchen, I make Arthur a peanut butter sandwich. Then I make another one and eat it slowly, wandering into the living room. Arthur is curled into herself on the couch, tucked into the fetal position. I gave her a blanket (with a badass tiger on it) but it's pulled from her shoulders during sleep movements. I gently tug the blanket back up to her neck, then even gentlier (fuck you, English language) smooth down her hair where it's ruffled. It's so soft, that hair. Like a baby sheep's soul. It's starting to grow longer, past her ears. It'll be a layered bob soon. She'll look so pretty. Goddamn.

Get your head on straight, Gilbert.

I almost jump out of my skin when my phone goes off, harmonicas and drums and Beatles. I cringe and answer it quick, blood pounding in my ears. On the couch, thankfully, Arthur stays sleeping. Shhhh.

Creeping away from the couch, I say in a low voice, "Yeah, what?"

"How are you coming with the Raivis assignment?" Ivan's deep Russian accent is not what I want to hear right now.

"I'm coming." I'm tempted to make a phone sex joke, but something tells me not to. There's a weird dread in me, multiplying as my cellphone counts the seconds of the call.

"And you have no found him yet." He doesn't sound impressed, but he never sounds impressed.

"No, I ain't found him. But I'm lookin'. It'll get done. Don't get your panties in a bunch."

"I have another job for you, but if you do not have the mental resources for two undertakings, you do not have to take it."

The last thing I want right now is have another person to be hunting and worrying about. There's a tiny piece of my head that slathers at the idea—oh yes, give me somebody to kill, yes, fuck, I'll make them bleed for you, yes—but I do my best to shut it up. Arthur is my priority. I'm finally helping someone. I'm being a good person.

Christ, I'm like those goddamn kittens on the internet. I can has conscience?

"No, I'm not really in the best mindset for another one. I'm gettin' tired. Think I'll take a vacation after this one." Not a paid vacation, as you can imagine. I end up with money where Braginski feels I need it. Money for food, money to fix up the house, money for alcohol. Never have to pay for weapons, though. The benefit of working for an arms dealer.

"I will give it to someone else, then."

My hackles raise at that one. He says that someone else in a pretty loaded way. "Who else? One of the goons?"

"No. I have hired another like you. He will do it."

My dread is turning to anger now. There's a gasoline fire in my chest. "You replacin' me, Braginski?"

"Speak with respect, Gilbert, or you could be right. How do you know I have not always had others like you?"

Good goddamn question. "Ain't nobody like me."

"Mm. Perhaps." He doesn't agree one bit. Fucking asshole. "Find Raivis. If you do not, I have no reason to keep you in my employ."

"What the fuck?"

"Finding a child is not difficult, Gilbert. I did not think you would have this much trouble. How many places have you searched?"

Lie to him. But my head is so out of it from sleeping and not sleeping, and I can't think more than two steps ahead. If I lie, what will happen? I can't think, and that's terrifying enough that I tell the truth.

"Y'know. A couple."

I hear him take a drag from a cigar. "Mm. As I suspect. Seems like you do not want to find the boy, da?"

Oh, Jesus, give me something to say to him. "Well, ya gave me a month, and like I said, I'm tired. I'm takin' my time for a while."

"Mm."

"Enough with the mm, ja? Do you want something from me? I'll find the kid, and your new like-me-motherfucker guy will find . . . who's this new assignment?"

"Does it matter to you, if you are not doing the job?"

"Professional curiosity."

"If you say so. His name is Arthur Jones. Husband of Alfred Jones. He is to be found immediately."

My ears ring. The world muffles as if a grenade just went off in front of me. I feel like time has stopped.

"I have other calls to make, Gilbert. Find the boy." He hangs up.

I slowly slide my phone back into my pocket, and turn to look down at Arthur. She's still curled up, now with a hand close to her mouth as if she might start sucking on a thumb. I watch her side rise and fall as she breathes, her lips parted slightly, oblivious and vulnerable.

Somewhere, a dangerous man is looking for her.

I've never felt more afraid in my goddamn life.

I can't leave her alone. Even if this is the last place anyone would think to look, I can't. Anything could happen.

This is why I never let myself care for someone, since Elizaveta, since Ludwig. I care too much, and I can't keep people. They die, they become someone else. They leave me. It kills me.

Gently as possible, I slide my hands under Arthur—beneath her knees and around her shoulders. She's thin as a twig, probably from stress, so she's easy to carry up to my room. I lie down on my bed with her in my arms, and watch her turn her head, praying she won't wake up, hoping she will.

She makes a soft sound without opening her eyes and nuzzles her face into my shirt.

I let the back of my skull rest against the headboard and sigh quietly. This is the biggest mistake I could make. A hitman can't have a heart. I can't put my neck out for other people. It'll be slit.

I'll just have to hope that Arthur doesn't like me back. Then I can protect her and send her on her way once the coast is clear, and Braginski can take three months to slowly kill me.

That's my best-case scenario.

Fuckin' peachy, ain't it?