forest, remember?”
The frown faded, but only marginally so. “Shot? What do you mean? I haven’t been shot. I’ve never been shot.”
Now it was Joanna’s turn to draw her brows together in an expression of confusion. “But… I saw you. I prayed for you—the arrow. It was…” Her voice trailed off as her hand touched her own chest, finding the spot where she’d seen the arrow protrude.
The woman shook her head. “Look. I really haven’t the foggiest what you’re talking about, honey. All I know is that I’ve never seen you here before. If you’re one of Yury’s friends, that’s fine. I just wish he would let me know in advance.” She turned on her heel and started to stride off, then seemed to remember something and turned back. “Oh, and for the record? I’m not Yana. I’m Tatyana.” As she stalked off, she muttered, “I hate it when they do that.”
Joanna stared after the young woman, confusion now holding her in its grip. Was she imagining things? Hadn’t she seen this woman mortally wounded only the day before?
Unable to restrain herself, and in an attempt to hold on to the last vestiges of sanity, she called out, “Aren’t you Spartak’s girlfriend?”
The woman turned and yelled back, walking backward now, “Spartak doesn’t have a girlfriend, lady. If you’re Yury’s friend you should know that!” Then she shook her head and disappeared around the house, mumbling something under her breath that Joanna couldn’t catch. It didn’t sound particularly friendly.
Joanna stood rooted to the spot for a moment, and when a window opened on the third floor, and Vitaly’s face appeared, she uttered a startled cry.
“Vitaly! Thank God!”
“What’s the matter?” he asked, and she was glad to find him more solicitous than upset.
She pointed at the girl who’d just disappeared around the corner. “I just saw Yana. Only she said her name was Tatyana, and she couldn’t remember anything about what happened yesterday.” She threw up her hands. “What’s going on here, Vitaly? Am I going crazy or what?”
He held out a soothing hand, then seemed to curse under his breath. “Keep your voice down. Please!”
“Not if you don’t tell me what the hell is going on!” she yelled, the tension of the past twenty-four hours suddenly becoming too much for her.
“I’ll be right down,” he called out, and abruptly closed the window before she could rejoin another retort.
Vitaly must have stormed down the stairs, for mere seconds later he was bearing down on her, his face a thunderstorm. She watched his approach with rising trepidation. So this was what errant payers saw when they reneged on Yury’s debt. Vitaly Loganov honing in on them with rage in his eyes and the intent of violence in his step.
Refusing to let herself be bullied by him, she planted her fists on her hips. “Tell me what I saw yesterday didn’t happen. That I dreamed the whole thing!”
The moment he was upon her, he took her arm in a viselike grip and propelled her forward, falling into step beside her.
“Let me go!” she cried, trying to wrench her arm free from his grasp. “You can’t keep doing this to me! I’m not a child!”
The moment they’d arrived at a small structure, he threw open the door and pushed her inside, then followed in, slamming the door shut. A large garden house of some kind, her eyes had trouble adjusting to the relative darkness inside, a small window providing the only light. She could still discern the tools of the garden trade neatly suspended on hooks on the walls, bags of fertilizer in one corner, a stack of chopped wood in the other.
“I can do whatever the hell I want,” he growled, taking a wide stance in front of the door, cutting off her only route of escape.
“You cannot,” she returned fiercely. “I’m a free woman. You have no say over me whatsoever. And if I want to leave, I’ll leave, whether you like it or not.”
His head lowered, and he appeared
The frown faded, but only marginally so. “Shot? What do you mean? I haven’t been shot. I’ve never been shot.”
Now it was Joanna’s turn to draw her brows together in an expression of confusion. “But… I saw you. I prayed for you—the arrow. It was…” Her voice trailed off as her hand touched her own chest, finding the spot where she’d seen the arrow protrude.
The woman shook her head. “Look. I really haven’t the foggiest what you’re talking about, honey. All I know is that I’ve never seen you here before. If you’re one of Yury’s friends, that’s fine. I just wish he would let me know in advance.” She turned on her heel and started to stride off, then seemed to remember something and turned back. “Oh, and for the record? I’m not Yana. I’m Tatyana.” As she stalked off, she muttered, “I hate it when they do that.”
Joanna stared after the young woman, confusion now holding her in its grip. Was she imagining things? Hadn’t she seen this woman mortally wounded only the day before?
Unable to restrain herself, and in an attempt to hold on to the last vestiges of sanity, she called out, “Aren’t you Spartak’s girlfriend?”
The woman turned and yelled back, walking backward now, “Spartak doesn’t have a girlfriend, lady. If you’re Yury’s friend you should know that!” Then she shook her head and disappeared around the house, mumbling something under her breath that Joanna couldn’t catch. It didn’t sound particularly friendly.
Joanna stood rooted to the spot for a moment, and when a window opened on the third floor, and Vitaly’s face appeared, she uttered a startled cry.
“Vitaly! Thank God!”
“What’s the matter?” he asked, and she was glad to find him more solicitous than upset.
She pointed at the girl who’d just disappeared around the corner. “I just saw Yana. Only she said her name was Tatyana, and she couldn’t remember anything about what happened yesterday.” She threw up her hands. “What’s going on here, Vitaly? Am I going crazy or what?”
He held out a soothing hand, then seemed to curse under his breath. “Keep your voice down. Please!”
“Not if you don’t tell me what the hell is going on!” she yelled, the tension of the past twenty-four hours suddenly becoming too much for her.
“I’ll be right down,” he called out, and abruptly closed the window before she could rejoin another retort.
Vitaly must have stormed down the stairs, for mere seconds later he was bearing down on her, his face a thunderstorm. She watched his approach with rising trepidation. So this was what errant payers saw when they reneged on Yury’s debt. Vitaly Loganov honing in on them with rage in his eyes and the intent of violence in his step.
Refusing to let herself be bullied by him, she planted her fists on her hips. “Tell me what I saw yesterday didn’t happen. That I dreamed the whole thing!”
The moment he was upon her, he took her arm in a viselike grip and propelled her forward, falling into step beside her.
“Let me go!” she cried, trying to wrench her arm free from his grasp. “You can’t keep doing this to me! I’m not a child!”
The moment they’d arrived at a small structure, he threw open the door and pushed her inside, then followed in, slamming the door shut. A large garden house of some kind, her eyes had trouble adjusting to the relative darkness inside, a small window providing the only light. She could still discern the tools of the garden trade neatly suspended on hooks on the walls, bags of fertilizer in one corner, a stack of chopped wood in the other.
“I can do whatever the hell I want,” he growled, taking a wide stance in front of the door, cutting off her only route of escape.
“You cannot,” she returned fiercely. “I’m a free woman. You have no say over me whatsoever. And if I want to leave, I’ll leave, whether you like it or not.”
His head lowered, and he appeared
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