“Nobody could possibly do what I do.”Now there’s emotion in Uriel’s voice.He’s angry.
Allen’s tone is soothing.“Of course not.You’re one of a kind.But they found the guy who offed that college girl all those years ago.And for some reason, they think he did the others.”
Art.They’re talking about killing people.They’re talking about killingme.
I strain against my bindings.The plastic rope cuts into my skin.
And if I got loose, then what?I’ll fight off two full-grown men with a utility knife?Yeah, that’s not happening.
I cut my gaze over to the knife.It glints dully beneath the desk, taunting me.I can’t reach it, not even with my feet.Earlier, I tried rocking my chair back and forth to see if I could move to it.But the chair’s too heavy.It might not be as fancy as the new one next to me, but it’s solidly built out of heavy wood.
The door opens suddenly and the other guy peers in.His thin face looks even thinner because of his narrow mustache, and his brown eyes are flat and cruel.“She’s awake.”
I stare at him, letting my anger and hatred shoot through my eyeballs.I hope he feels it.I hope it fuckinghurts.
“That’s fine,” Uriel says from behind him.“She isn’t going anywhere.She’ll sleep again soon enough.”
Fear spikes, but I force myself to hold perfectly still until the door closes on Allen’s ugly face.
I bow my head, determined not to cry.
4
Troy
Two nights since they kidnapped Dani.I haven’t slept.Edmund hasn’t, either.Every time my eyes close, all I can see is her—those pale gray eyes wide with terror.
I feel feral, scratchy in my own skin.I’d chew off my own arm to get to her if that’s what it took.
There’s one guard from the wedding we haven’t yet talked to.Darryl Scollins.
“It’s gotta be him.”I dial Scollins’s number—again.I get sent to voicemail after two rings—again.“He isn’t answering.”
“He’s probably sleeping or gambling.Try him again.”Edmund throws his coffee mug in the sink, where it shatters.
I dial Scollins again.Nothing.
Edmund stalks back and forth across the living room.“Has Grinnote called?”
“Let’s pay him a visit.”It’s better than dialing Scollins repeatedly.We called Grinnote yesterday—Sunday—to get traffic cam footage.He’s had plenty of time to get his shit figured out.
Ten minutes later, we’re parked outside Samuel Grinnote’s cookie-cutter suburban dream house.We watch as he exits and calls out a goodbye to his wife and kid.He’s wearing boring khaki pants and a light blue polo shirt.With his blond hair and round face, he looks like a fucking missionary instead of a plainclothes cop.
I open my truck door and get out to look over the hood at him.
When he notices me, he visibly starts, his shoulders coming up defensively.As if realizing what he just did, he relaxes his shoulders and strolls over to the curb.
“Hey.Manchester, right?How you doin’?”
I’m not doing well.I’m spiraling.Panicked.Angry.I don’t say any of this, though.“You haven’t sent us the footage.”
“Right.”He flicks his gaze back and forth down the street, like someone could be watching us.Like anyone cares about this cockroach.“It’s harder to get than I expected.I can’t send the files out—someone will notice, I’ll get caught.Then you won’t have a guy on the inside.”
“Then watch the footage yourself.We don’t fucking care, we just want to know who got our girl.You’re going to look up that footage right the fuck now.We’ll follow you to the station and wait outside.”
He gulps, visibly nervous.“I don’t know if the other detectives?—”
“We don’t pay you to take zero risks, Grinnote.”
