The Time Stoppe(6)

I run back to the room and approach my body. It’s always strange seeing myself like that. Being able to examine myself from all angles used to magnify my teenage insecurities. Normal girls can drive themselves crazy with a mirror, but Readers have it much worse. I remember being depressed about the shape of the back of my ankles not long after my fifteenth birthday. Of course, since my parents’ death, I haven’t thought about shit like that ever again.

I prepare myself for exiting the Mind Dimension and reach out, placing my hand on my frozen self’s face.

And just like that, I’m back in my body.

The sounds are back, and so is the smell of smoke. Victor completes the motion of sitting down in his chair. The dealer finishes dealing. Shkillet stops staring at me, and looks furtively at Victor to see if he would reply to my weird statement.

“What the f*ck are you talking about?” says a bald guy who’s smoking a cigar. “If someone brought a bomb in here, Victor would put that bomb into that yebanat’s ass.”





Chapter 3


The next few rounds of poker proceed predictably, given that I know which cards everyone is holding, as well as the top cards of the deck. So obviously, I win every round I can. And as I win, I watch Victor’s amusement grow. I’m not sure if it’s my winning that he finds amusing or the men’s reactions. They dare not give me any attitude, but when I sneak a look at Shkillet, I can tell he’s barely hiding his anger. Today, out of spite, I’ve been winning more than I usually do, and two rounds ago, I called Shkillet’s bluff—a bluff that would’ve probably worked if not for my Reading powers.

Since I don’t have a lot of Depth left, I decide that now is the time for me to get out of here. Before I wear out my welcome, so to speak.

“Gentlemen.” I stand up. “It’s been a pleasure.”

“Pleasure taking our money, you mean?” Victor, surprisingly, doesn’t sound angry. More like he’s teasing.

“Sure, that, and it’s nice to finally put a face to the name . . . Victor.” That might’ve come out too flirtatious, but hell, I’m too wired for finesse at the moment. As I start gathering my stuff, I see Shkillet begin to fidget. I can tell he’s about to leave, too. He’s determined to put that plan of his into motion.

I put my winnings into my purse and slowly walk out, trying not to look suspicious.

I know I should make a run for it once I’m in the hall instead of implementing my more dangerous idea of confronting him. But I don’t. That would be like playing the last rounds of poker so Shkillet would win—something else I could’ve done, but didn’t. He needs a lesson, and I’ll enjoy giving it to him. Maybe with him, I’ll finally get the chance to figure out if I’m capable of doing what must be done when the time comes. My brother doesn’t think I’d take someone’s life. He means it as a compliment, but that’s not how I take it, and tonight, I’m betting my life that my brother is wrong.

I arrive at the bathroom door. Shkillet hasn’t come out of the game room yet. I take out a pack of Marlboro Reds and a lighter from my purse. I don’t really smoke, but pretending to smoke has come in handy at times. Being a girl with a cigarette in her hand is a good icebreaker when the room is full of men with lighters. So I’m a sort of social smoker, I guess. But unlike others, I hate every inhalation. Sometimes when I smoke, I can almost feel the stuff making my lungs and teeth yellow and gross.

As I put the disgusting thing in my mouth, the game room door opens. I light up, inhale, and try not to cough while glancing at the door. Shkillet’s there, and we make fleeting eye contact before I exhale the smoke.

Bait set, I walk into the bathroom.

I close the flimsy door lock behind me, hang my purse on a little hook in an effort to free my hands, and run to the toilet as quickly as possible given the slippery floor and my high heels.

The toilet lid is opened, and I catch a glimpse of the disgusting stuff in the bowl when I throw my now-useless cigarette into it. God, would it have been that difficult to flush the shit? The sight and stench of it reminds me of a nightmare I had a few times about a dirty bathroom. And this reality might be worse than that nightmare if I don’t hurry up.

I reach for the water tank just as I hear the lock on the door being picked.

Shit. He’s faster than I thought he’d be. He must’ve run down that hall like a maniac.

I frantically lift the heavy tank cover . . . just as the door lock fails.

“What the hell?” Shkillet says in Russian as he steps inside and sees me standing there with the lid in my hands.

Good. Not what he was expecting. And I capitalize on that by throwing the lid at his head with all my strength.

He’s not fast enough to duck.

As he staggers backward with a grunt, I turn and grab the gun in the plastic zipped bag from the tank. I’d found this weapon in one of my earlier excursions in the Mind Dimension. I’m ripping the bag open when someone’s hands grab my left arm.

It’s Shkillet.

His fingers are like pincers digging into my flesh.

I Split into the Mind Dimension to assess the situation.

The sounds of his panting are gone, and I observe us from my new vantage point.

One of his hands is on my arm, and the other is reaching into his boot for the ceramic knife he’s hiding there. His eyebrow is split open—must be where the lid hit him. The blood running from that wound makes his face look ghoulish.