Quiet. Flat. Deadly.
Bones exhaled like he’d been waiting for those exact two words.
I didn’t hesitate.
The rope cut through the air with a sound that always made men flinch—sharp, fast, inevitable.
I didn’t focus on where the knots landed, I didn’t have to. Sinclair’s whole body told the story.
His scream tore out of him raw, strangled, like it dragged pieces of his lungs with it. The chair rattled against the concrete from the force of his involuntary convulsion. He jerked so hard the zip-ties bit deeper into his skin—blood welling in thin, angry lines.
He gasped.
Once.
Twice.
Like he couldn’t figure out how to breathe around the pain.
I didn’t bother offering him time to recover. The rope was still warm in my hand.
Voodoo stepped closer, voice low and controlled. “Grace asked a question.”
Sinclair’s eyes were wide, terrified, already wet at the corners, not from emotion. From sheer, blinding pain.
“I don’t—” he choked again, frantic. “I don’t know where she is! I wasn’t—I wasn’t part of that! I wasn’t—she wasn’t?—”
“Stop,” Voodoo said.
Sinclair stopped.
Grace’s expression didn’t change. No triumph. No relief. Just a cold, carved-out steadiness.
“Try again,” she told him.
“I don’t—Grace, please?—”
I swung.
He shrieked, higher this time, the sound bouncing off the basement walls like something alive and desperate to escape.His legs shook. His hands clenched white around the arms of the chair. Sweat burst across his face in a sudden sheen.
“What did you do with her?” Grace repeated.
“I didn’t take her!” Sinclair gasped, voice hoarse and cracking. “I didn’t—I never—! I only delivered payments, I only—Jesus—God— please?—”
Bones leaned down, voice a low rumble next to Sinclair’s ear. “You want to live? Stop talking about what youdidn’tdo. Start talking about what youdid.”
Sinclair sobbed once—a pathetic, wet sound that scraped raw across my nerves.
“I was the middleman!” he blurted out sobbing. “I passed along cash, instructions— I don’t—I don’t choose targets, I don’t pick up, I never see them again— I don’t know where they go?—”
Grace’s jaw flexed. Barely. But I saw it.
Then she started walking.
Slowly—deliberately—she moved forward. Sweatpants, hoodie, damp hair… none of it mattered. Grace walked like she was wearing a runway, a camera, and an entire industry beneath her heels. I’d seen her glide like this in commercials, in campaign shoots, in fashion shows where she was dressed in enough designer fabric to bankrupt a small country.
But this wasn’t that Grace.
