Page 91 of Hate You Most
For a second she looked almost exactly the way that Viktoriya remembered her, from before the arguments—the same softness in her eyes that was almost hidden away behind her glasses, the same steadiness in the way she carried herself—but there was a hesitation in her posture that hadn’t been there before.
Neither of them spoke right away.
Dakota’s gaze flicked over Viktoriya’s face, searching it carefully, like she was trying to guess what kind of conversation this would be before it even started.
“Hi,” Dakota finally said.
Viktoriya didn’t return the greeting, instead she shifted her weight slightly. “We need to talk.”
Dakota gave the softest nod and opened the door fully. Viktoriya walked past her and into the apartment they'd once shared.
The living room looked almost exactly the same as the last time she had been there. The same couch, the same wide windows overlooking the Detroit skyline. It had barely been a home when she'd left, but stepping back into it, the apartment was more of a home than anywhere else she'd spent the night. Especially not the cold hotel room she'd been sleeping in for the past month.
Dakota closed the door behind them and leaned back against it slightly. She was always quick to find an escape, if the conversation turned hostile toward her she had a way out. Although fleeing out of her own apartment would certainly be a new low for her.
“So,” she said carefully. “What’s going on?”
Viktoriya turned to face her. “I talked to someone yesterday.”
Dakota frowned. “Okay.”
“What is with the attitude?”
Dakota looked down at the floor and laughed at her. “You show up here after a month and then start telling me about the guy you’re fucking. It’s a really fucking low blow—but I guess it’s what I deserve.”
Viktoriya blinked. “What? What do you think this conversation is about? Do you think I came here to talk about some guy I am fucking?”
Dakota kept her eyes to the floor. “It wouldn't be a girl—I know that much.”
“Fuck, no. That’s… is that seriously what you thought I was coming here to talk with you about? That is not what this conversation is.”
Dakota lifted her eyes, finally looking directly at her. “Fine, what? What else could you possibly be here to talk about?”
“Oh my god,” she said. “I talked to Oaklyn Jones yesterday. She was in a car crash too.” Viktoriya forced herself to speak slowly even though the thoughts in her head were moving far faster than the conversation itself. “A few weeks ago, outside of Chicago. Late at night, on the highway. The articles describe it almost exactly the same way they described mine.”
Dakota’s expression tightened slightly, though she didn’t move closer. She remained almost pressed against the door, arms loosely folded.
Viktoriya stepped further into the living room, the familiar layout of the apartment making something inside her chest strangely tight. She ignored the feeling and continued.
“She is Russian,” Viktoriya said. “She has changed her name and has been living in the United States for years now. She is an actress, not skater, but recognizable enough that the accident made the news.”
Dakota finally spoke. “Okay… and you talked to her?”
“Yes,” Viktoriya said.
“How exactly did that happen?”
Viktoriya hesitated for half a second. “I called her. At first I told her I was a journalist.”
Dakota’s eyebrows rose slowly. “You pretended to be a journalist.”
“I did not pretend for long,” Viktoriya said, defensive now, lifting her chin slightly. “I told her the truth after, but I needed her to talk to me first.”
Dakota let out a loud breath through her nose, the kind she used to do when she decided whether to argue or simply accept something ridiculous that had already happened. “And what did she say?” Dakota asked.
“She remembers headlights behind her car,” Viktoriya said. “She remembers someone very close behind her, pushing her car forward, and then nothing. She woke up in hospital and the last four years of her memories are gone.”
The room fell quiet for a moment and Viktoriya continued before Dakota could dismiss it too easily.
