"Good girl," he murmurs. "Now, I'm going to move my hand. If you scream, I'll cut your throat. Understand?"
I nod.
Barely.
Just enough for him to feel it.
His hand slides away from my mouth.
The knife stays pressed against my skin.
"Please," I whisper. "I don't—I have money. My purse is in the break room. Take whatever you want, just please?—"
"I don't want your money."
"Then what?—"
"I want your boyfriend to get a message." His grip tightens on my arm. "Your fiancé, I should say. Congratulations, by the way. Saw the announcement on Facebook. Beautiful ring. Beautiful couple. Too bad it's not going to last."
Facebook.
The engagement post.
That's how he found me.
"I don't understand," I manage. "What message? What do you want with Gunnar?"
"He doesn't know how to mind his own business. Neither does his little club." The man's voice hardens. "That raid a few weeks ago? Almost cost us a lot of money. A lot of time. A lot of very valuable merchandise."
Merchandise.
Children.
He's talking about children like they're products.
"We got away clean that time," he continues. "Your boyfriend got a knife in the gut for his trouble. Thought that would be enough of a message. Apparently not. Apparently, your club is still sniffing around. Still trying to play hero."
"I don't know anything about?—"
"Shut up." The knife presses harder. "I don't care what you know. I care what you can tell them. And here's what you're going to tell them—back off. Stop looking. Stop interfering. Or next time, it won't be a warning. Next time, it'll be a funeral."
"Please—"
"Do you understand?"
"Yes. Yes, I understand. I'll tell them. I'll?—"
"Good."
He releases me.
I stumble forward, gasping, my hand going to my throat.
For one second—one brief, beautiful second—I think it's over.
Then his fist connects with my face.
The impact sends me flying.
