Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 124446 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 622(@200wpm)___ 498(@250wpm)___ 415(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 124446 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 622(@200wpm)___ 498(@250wpm)___ 415(@300wpm)
“Please.” Her father’s voice quavers as he pushes the little girl farther behind him. “Please, you have the car now. Please, go. We won’t tell, I swear. Just… go.”
The terrifying man smiles, the madness in his eyes glowing brighter. “Sorry, no witnesses allowed.” And he lifts the gun.
Pop! Pop!
The gunshots punch the girl’s ears like a blow. Dazed, she stumbles back as her parents crumple in front of her and a sharp, burning smell fills the air, mixing with something coppery and metallic.
“What the fuck?” The other man sticks his head out the window. “That wasn’t the plan!”
“Wait,” the killer says, taking aim at the little girl, but she’s already running. She might be small, but she’s fast, so fast she darts behind the trees before the next shot rings out. Behind her, she can hear the hijackers arguing, but she keeps running, her heart beating like a hummingbird’s wings.
She doesn’t run far into the forest. Instead, she finds a clump of above-ground roots and hides there, all the while telling herself it’s just a game she’s playing. The tears freezing on her face and the tremors wracking her tiny body belie that story, but she ignores them.
She’s strong and fast. She can beat all the boys. Even the adult ones with black, scary-looking guns that make her ears hurt. So what if she’s hungry and so cold she can barely feel her nose and toes? She’s going to wait for the bad men to leave, then go back and find her parents. And they’ll hug her and tell her what a good girl she is. Then they’ll all go and have dinner.
So she waits and waits, shivering in the coat her mother put on her. By the time she climbs out of her hiding place, it’s completely dark, with only the full moon lighting her way, and she’s afraid something will jump out at her from the trees. A wolf or a bear or a monster. At six, she’s still young enough to believe in monsters of the non-human kind.
Choking down her fear, she retraces her steps, like she would in a game of soldiers-and-captives. The car and the bad men are gone, but her parents are there, lying by the side of the road in the exact same way as when they fell: her mother on her side, white-blond hair covering her face, and her father on his back, his face turned the other way.
The girl’s heart skips a beat, then starts racing so fast it hurts. She feels dizzy again, and cold. But it’s not her nose or hands or toes that are freezing now; it’s something deep inside her. Trembling, she kneels by her mother and tugs on her sleeve. “Mommy. Mommy, please. Let’s go.”
There’s no response, and when she looks down at her hand, she sees a smear of red on her fingers. And on her jeans.
She’s kneeling in a puddle of blood.
Her stomach turns over, and she feels like she might vomit. Backing up on all fours, she bumps into her father’s side. “Daddy!” She grabs his hand and squeezes it with all her strength. “Daddy, wake up!”
But he doesn’t answer either. His hand is stiff and icy in her grip, and when she turns his face toward her, his eyes are open, as if he’s staring at the full moon above.
Only there’s no expression in his eyes. They’re blank, unseeing. And in the middle of his forehead is a hole.
Trembling all over, the little girl rises to her feet. She doesn’t feel hungry anymore, but she’s cold. So very, very cold. It’s as if the snow is inside her, filling her stomach and chest. It feels good in a way, numbing. The painful, hummingbird-like fluttering of her heart seems to quiet down, edged out by the iciness that fills her lungs with every breath she takes.
The girl doesn’t know how long she stands there, staring at the dead bodies of her parents. All she knows is that by the time she turns and starts walking, there’s no more pain or fear inside her.
Her heart is snow and ice.
Part I
1
Mina
Budapest, 15 Months Earlier
A wave of dizziness washes over me, and the tray I’m carrying wobbles in my hands, causing the beer bottles to topple over, spilling the foaming liquid.
Dammit. When is this going to end?
Gritting my teeth, I sink to one knee behind the column and set the tray on the sticky floor, pretending to tie the shoelaces on my Doc Martens while I wait for the dizziness to pass and my hands to stop shaking.
Thirty seconds pass. Then a minute. And my stupid hands are still shaking.
Cursing under my breath, I mop at the spilled beer with a rag. That much I can manage. Lifting the tray itself, though, is beyond me. It weighs only a couple of kilos, but I’m so weak it might as well be a hundred. And this is only the start of my shift. I have no idea how I’m going to last until the bar closes tonight. Maybe Hanna was right. Maybe this is too soon, and I should—