Two Months and Three Days (Sinister Romance #1)

Chapter 3 (Part II)

He was standing there, trying to make out Arina's face in the semidarkness of the room.

"What?" Arina flinched and unwittingly covered her face with her hand as if she were trying to protect herself.

"Why are you hiding in here? You are not one of the journalists, are you?" His eyes adjusted to the darkness and he frowned, the smile disappearing from his face. He took a step forward, looking concerned and surprised.

"Are you crying?" he asked as if he couldn't believe his eyes. Arina panicked, not knowing what to say and how to find the strength to say anything at all. Here he was, standing right in front of her. He had noticed her just as she had dreamed. Only . . . why was he talking to her? What was he doing here? Why had he made the horrible video that would now haunt her forever?

"It died, right?" Arina whispered, not even trying to hide her tears. It didn't matter anyway, and she didn't care that he saw her like this. At first, Maxim didn't even seem to understand the question. Then he slowly shifted his gaze to the screen.

"The giraffe? Yes, of course."

"And you were there?" Arina interrupted him, her voice trembling; she could barely think. Maxim was silent for a moment and then he nodded, not taking his eyes off her tear-stained face.

"Yes, I was there."

"Did you try and save it?" Maxim paused, surprised, looking at Arina's blue eyes blazing with anger.

"To be honest, I couldn't. Besides, it wasn't my job." He reached out his hand as if he wanted to wipe the tears from her face or maybe just touch her. Arina leaned back, shook her head, and motioned to interrupt him.

"I have to go!" She squeezed between him and the wall. For one split second, she was so close to him that she could feel the smell of his body, a barely noticeable mixture of sweat, tiredness, an expensive deodorant, something indescribably individual belonging to him alone. Her head was spinning but that didn't stop her. She darted out into the middle of the exhibition hall and looked around. Everyone, the journalists, the security guards, the girl in high heels who had managed evidently to talk the security guard into letting her in, looked at her, astonished.

"Wait!" Maxim shouted after her and began to follow after her, but the sound of his voice was drowned in dozens of conversations, the rustle of footsteps, the clatter of heels, and a volley of flashing cameras.

Arina looked around frantically trying to find the exit, exhausted, lost in a maze of white walls and horrible photographs, just like the little giraffe. She had to run; she had to get away from the monsters that called the act of killing "art." Arina was furious. She ran away, flying down the white staircase. She didn't look around, didn't stop. She sprained her ankle but kept running, limping as she ran.

She only stopped when she was a block away fromthe exhibition center, across the street, and then she burst into tears like alittle girl. She felt terribly sorry for the giraffe.