The Time Stoppe(8)

“No, Eugene, it’s some f*cking stranger using our shower!” I slam the sliding door for emphasis.

“Thanks for saying the F word—now I know it’s you!” He bangs on the bathroom door. “Come to the kitchen when you’re done.”

I wish I’d slept instead of tossing and turning all night. Still, the little sleep that I had should keep me going, and this shower is doing wonders.

I put on jeans and a T-shirt and head to the kitchen. My curiosity is piqued because I smell food—an oddity because I don’t think anyone is here besides Eugene. Which would mean that, whatever dish the smell is coming from, he would’ve had to cook it.

“Happy birthday to you,” my brother sings when I enter. “Happy birthday to you—”

“Eugene, please stop. My ears are going to wilt.” I use humor to cover up the fact that I completely forgot about my birthday. With everything that’s happened, it was the last thing on my mind.

“I made pancakes.” He puts a plate in front of me when I sit down at the table. “Eighteen. One for each year.”

“Is that what those brownish ovals are?” I give him a questioning look. “And isn’t it supposed to be a candle for each year, not pancakes?”

“Aha!” He winks and brings his hands out from behind his back. He’s holding a cupcake with a lit candle. The strawberry vanilla cupcake from the local Italian bakery that I like. It’s a miracle he didn’t burn his clothes standing like that.

“Thank you.” I take the pastry and place it on the table. “And thanks for wearing a clean lab coat on this special occasion.”

“You’re welcome.” He’s acting like he didn’t hear my ribbing about the lab coat. “Make a wish.”

A wish. All of a sudden, I feel an ache in my chest. None of my wishes are happy. None are normal. A normal girl would wish to meet a nice guy, someone who’s fun and good-looking. But not me. I wish I could find my parents’ killers and the person who sent them, and then find the will and fortitude to kill them.

“Is something the matter?” Eugene asks.

“No,” I lie, smoothing out my frown. “It’s silly.”

“You wish they were here to say happy birthday?” he says softly, switching to Russian.

I nod. It seems pointless to put it into words. As pointless as wishing.

We share a silence during which I stab the first of my eighteen pancakes with my fork and take a bite.

A bite that I have to stop myself from spitting out.

“Eugene . . .” I try to swallow the soggy, half-cooked lump in my mouth. “These are awful.”

Oh crap. As soon as I see the hurt look on his face, I realize I could’ve been more tactful. But seriously, these are the worst-tasting pancakes I’ve ever had.

“Sorry.” He demonstratively puts a pancake into his own mouth and chews it. “I did what the algorithm said.” His expression doesn’t change; if he can taste the problem, he’s not showing it.

“They’re called recipes, not algorithms.” I move the plate toward him. “And I’m sure it called for butter and salt, things that make food yummy—stuff that’s clearly missing from these pancake-esque thingies.”

“Potato, potahto . . . Recipes are algorithms.” He spears another pancake onto his fork. “And salt and butter are bad for you anyway.”

“A lot of good stuff is bad for you.” I reach for the cupcake he bought for me and place it on my plate. “And it’s funny you brought up potatoes. Did you put that in these pancakes? Because there’s this aftertaste—”

“I’m not an idiot, Mira,” he says. “If I made potato pancakes, I would call them draniki. Do you remember how—”

He doesn’t have to finish that question. Of course I remember Mom’s draniki. A cross between pancakes and hash browns, they were the most delicious things ever—and a part of my childhood I’ll never have again.

I interrupt him by demonstratively blowing out the candle and taking a bite of my cupcake, making that yumminess-signifying, “Mmmmmmm,” as I do so.

Eugene smiles at first, but then his face goes dark, an expression so intense and unnatural for him that it frightens me. And considering he’s looking over my shoulder, I’m really hoping it’s not a huge-ass spider.

“What’s that?” He points in that same direction.

“What’s what?” Oh shit. Maybe it’s one of those giant cockroaches that thrive in this building’s garbage disposal system. Or their competitors, the rats.

“That.” He stands up and peers at me. “The black-and-blue claw mark on your arm.”

I look at my left bicep. Fuck. It seems that Shkillet left a bruise when he grabbed me yesterday.

“It’s nothing.” I tug my sleeve down—not that it does much good. “Don’t worry about it.”

“It’s not nothing.” An even darker look crosses his face. “How stupid do you think I am?”

“Do you really want me to answer that?” I take a bite of my cupcake and regret it immediately. I know where this is going, and the delicious cupcake begins to taste like cardboard.

“I heard you come in late last night.” He sits back down slowly. “You were doing that again. You were consorting with those monsters.”