Lust, Loathing and a Little Lip Gloss by Kyra Davis Page B

you?”
    “I thought I heard you walking around upstairs.”
    “I did walk from the bedroom to the staircase so…”
    “I think someone’s in the house.”
    Anatoly met my eyes. I knew he was trying to gauge if I was joking or just suffering from a brief bout of hysteria thanks to the earlier events of the evening, but something in my expression must have told him that neither was the case. Quietly, he crossed to the corner of the living room where he had left his duffle bag from work, and from it he pulled out a .45. “Stay here,” he whispered, and with a sharpness and stealth that most of us can’t pull off at three o’clock in the morning, he crept up the stairs. Watching him do this in boxer shorts was kind of a surreal experience. Daniel Craig couldn’t have been better.
    In a moment he disappeared from sight. Mr. Katz continued to crouch under the coffee table. When I had followed him down the stairs a few minutes earlier, he had seemed like he had some kind of clarity of thought and was trying to communicate with me. Now he just seemed like…well, like a cat.
    I tore open one of my many boxes and dug my hand into a sea of crumpled newspaper and Bubble Wrap looking for something heavy. My hand settled on a crystal vase. Dena had used a similar vase to defend both of us from an attacker once and ever since I had grown an affinity for them. This one was heavier than the one Dena had used. Obviously it wasn’t a gun, and the taped-on Bubble Wrap might soften the blow, but still, it served the purpose of making me feel a little tougher. I may not have bullets, but I do have Lalique.
    According to the wall clock, Anatoly was up there for a full four minutes before coming down to give me the all clear. “It probably was just me you heard after all,” he reasoned. “The mind can plays tricks in the middle of the night.”
    Yes, but can the mind make your cat start acting like a small, laconic version of the Lion of Narnia? And what about the voice? But I didn’t say any of that. Instead, I collapsed on the couch and motioned for Anatoly to join me.
    “I take it you couldn’t sleep.”
    “I was pretending for your sake.”
    “You need to improve your acting skills. I knew you were awake.”
    “Then why did you fall asleep?”
    “Am I required to have insomnia every time you do?”
    “On the nights that I discover a dead body, yes, you’re required to stay up with me.”
    “Sophie, that’s at least eight or nine nights a year.”
    I smacked him on the thigh and he laughed softly. “I am sorry you had to see that,” he said with a slightly more somber tone. He pulled me to him and I rested my head on his shoulder. “You’ve had a tough time of it lately.”
    “Yeah, but I do have a new house.”
    “Almost have it,” Anatoly said softly. “It’ll be yours in about a week.”
    I didn’t argue this time. I mean, technically, he was right. How was I supposed to explain that this house belonged to me in a way that completely transcended any technicality?
    “I think,” Anatoly continued, “that this house is too big for one person.”
    I turned my face away. I had planned on asking him to live with me, but…but there was something I was supposed to do first. There was that sense of agitation again. What was it? What was I forgetting? Or had I ever known?
    “Sophie? Are you all right?”
    “What? Oh, yeah, I’m okay. I’m just…thinking.”
    “About Enrico?” Anatoly nodded without waiting for my answer. It was one of the few times he had ever misread me. Well, there was that short period of time right after we met when he thought I was a serial killer, but other than that small error he had pretty much had my number from the get-go. But since he had brought Enrico up…
    “How did the killer get out?” I asked. “I don’t get it.”
    “Neither do I,” Anatoly said. “And nobody commits suicide by slitting his own throat with a scythe. I’m not even sure it’s possible. Besides, he