“No,” I answer truthfully, crossing my arms in front of my chest.
“Does the name Randy Banks ring any bells?”
“No. I’ve never seen these men before. They are not the type of guys Brady hangs out with. He works as an IT guy for the government. His most dangerous hobby is fantasy football. I don’t know what the hell is going on.”
I force out the last few words, breathing too fast again. Before it can get worse, the man takes my hand and pulls me to my feet.
“It’s okay,” he mumbles. “I believe you.”
He leads me through the narrow corridor until we arrive in front of a cell, and it takes a while before he lets go of my hand to open the door.
“You need to stay here while I try to sort this out, sorry. But I promise it won’t take long.”
I’m shivering, and the man seems to notice. Because when I sit down on the thing they call a bed, he disappears and comes back with an emergency blanket. He drapes it over my shoulders and his hands linger a second longer than necessary before he goes back to the door.
“You still didn’t tell me why you brought me here.”
“Give me a few hours.”
With nothing tocheck the time, the few hours feel like half a day. When my racing thoughts finally stop and I drift off, the beeping keypad rips me out of my light sleep.
“Again?” I ask while rubbing my hands over my face. It’s still sticky with blood where the tears weren’t enough to wash it away, and I wrinkle my nose in disgust.
“Thought you’d be a little happier upon seeing me,” the man from earlier says and his shoulders drop. “I’m not here to interrogate you.”
He sits down across from me, right on the cold, disgusting floor, and the well-raised part of me wants to scoot over and tell him to sit on the uncomfortable bed instead.
A strand of dark blond hair falls over his face and I’m so focused on looking at him I somehow miss the small bag he’s holding out to me.
“Here,” he says, opening it when I don’t acknowledge it. It’s filled with various kinds of snacks and sweets, and after a minute of consideration—and a loud growl from my stomach—I reach for some brownies.
I stopped buying stuff like this for myself. Too expensive, and Brady’s repeated remarks about my non-existent self-control around desserts did the rest. But I think I deserve some chocolate after escaping death.
When he sees what I’ve picked, the man leans back with a grin.
“Thanks—“ I say as I open the wrapper.
“Max.”
I wait for him to look somewhere else before I take a bite and he busies himself by rummaging through the bag until he hears me crumple up the empty package.
“I figured you’d feel uncomfortable, you know, because of the blood,” he says, pointing at my face. “I would have gotten you some wet wipes, but Lieutenant Ryves hoards them like they are worth their weight in gold. Got a washcloth, though,” he says with a chuckle.
He gets up and my entire body tenses, causing him to stop in his tracks.
“You can do it yourself.” He shrugs, putting his hands in the pockets of his pants. “Just thought it’s easier if I helped you. Cosmetic mirrors aren’t too easy to find around here.”
“It’s fine,” I say, scooting over until there’s enough space between us on the bed.
I just hope I don’t have any chocolate on my face. Blood is embarrassing enough.
Max pulls a thermos bottle and a washcloth out of the bag, wetting it before he cleans my bloodstained hands. Unnervingly gentle. I want to thank him once he’s done, but the words are stuck in my throat as he softly grips my chin and turns my face. For the entire time he scrubs my face, Ihold my breath and when he’s finally done, I feel lightheaded.
“Why are you so nice to me?” I ask after bringing an appropriate distance between us. ”Is this some kind of trick to get me to talk?”
“Why? You’re holding back interesting details?”
“No.”
