I smile sweetly and let him wonder.
Because I am playing the long game. And he has no idea when the game actually started.
I watch him for a moment longer—Dante, still leaning against Grant’s desk like he owns the place—and the silence stretches between us, thick with challenge.
I tilt my head. “So? What were you doing rooting through Grant’s drawers?”
“Mm, not that easy.” He shrugs, casual. “Tell me yours and I’ll tell you mine.”
I glance at my watch again.
Almost time.
It can’t hurt anything now to be a little honest. It’s not like it will matter in a moment or two.
I pretend to think it over, tap a finger to my chin like I’m weighing the cost. “Sure. Why not.”
“I’m also going for the firm,” I say lightly. “I know. A little anticlimactic, right?”
He narrows his eyes but stays quiet. Watching.
“But you know,” I continue, picking up the bottle and walking toward the bar, “it’s the journey, not the destination. That’s where all the fascinating things happen.”
Dante blinks, clearly confused now.
I sigh, smiling. “I suppose I don’t have to talk in riddles. You won’t tell anyone anyway.”
He coughs once, as if he didn’t anticipate it. “Putting a lot of faith in my ability to keep a secret.”
I flash him a smile—wide, wicked, absolutely sincere.
“Dead men tend to keep the best secrets.”
His face falters and turns white as the grave.
I dump the contents casually down the sink, letting the glug of the liquor—and the poison it holds—disappear down the drain.
“You know,” I say cheerfully, “it took me a trial or two to really perfect the dosing. But I was always excellent in chemistry.”
I walk the room slowly, hands trailing along the bookshelves, the edge of the credenza, the back of Grant’s chair. And all the while, Dante just stands there—watching me like he’s starting to piece together a puzzle far too late.
“I poisoned them at the same time, you know,” I say, like we’re sharing secrets over coffee. “My parents. Slipped it into their wine. One right after the other.”
“My father fell like a brick.”
I sigh.
“Too quickly. Not dead yet, but gone. It was disappointing to think he didn’t suffer.”
Dante starts to cough.
Subtle, at first.
Then sharper. Harder.
“I wanted it to draw out a little. As you are experiencing right now,” I continue, circling the room like I’m giving a TED Talk. “So I lowered the dose for Mom—but that backfired. It was a little too low and she vomited most of it. Even got out a call to 911 before she started seizing.”
I wipe my finger along the bookshelf, as if there would be dust to collect, and pause on the picture of Grant’s mother.
