“That so.” I tilt my head toward the apartment behind me. “Red-haired bartender. Lives there.”
His gaze skates past me and then away too fast. He shrugs. “Wasn’t home.”
“Right.” I laugh, friendly. “Listen, man. I had a day. If someone came by, I’d love to send them a fruit basket for the lovely visit.” I fish my hand into my pocket; two twenties and a crumpled ten find my fingers. I fold the bills. “Help me help you ignore me, alright?”
He looks at the money.
“Ain’t seen nothing.”
Not enough, then. I won’t give this fucker the money from the deal. Rhea wanted me to go easy on the kid with no cash, and I did.
“Not even a delivery? Guy with a clipboard? Landlord?” I ask.
“Nope.” His jaw sets. He tries to push the door.
Something pretty fucking delicate snaps under my ribs, and I’m not talking about my wound here. I inhale once, long. Keep the curve of my mouth where it is.
“Shame,” I say. “I could swear somebody came over.”
And then, without warning, I drive my shoulder into the door. The chain rips from the jamb; the neighbor stumbles back on his heels. I step in and heel him in the sternum. He collapses onto a peeled faux-leather recliner.
“Hey—hey!” he yelps, trying to rise.
I plant him down by the throat. My voice stays all chirpy, like we’re sharing blueberry pancakes and I’m the coolest guy in the world. “Try again. Who came to her apartment?”
His eyes skitter. He tries to be belligerent. “You can’t—this is—illegal.”
“Yeah.” My voice is flat. “We crossed that line. Map’s gone forever. Answer me.”
“Get outta my—” His hand flashes for something under the side table.
I catch his wrist mid-dive and twist. Tendons snap under my fingers. He gasps, shock and anger mixing, and whatever was under the table stays there.
“You’re going to want to stop,” I tell him.
He spits. It splashes my cheek. I wipe it on my sleeve and smile like he told a joke.
“Okay,” I say, soft.
I break his wrist.
In my defense, I didn’t mean to resort to violence. The guy practically forced me. I was here, trying to be polite. Hell, I’d have even checked his pipes later if he’d saved me the time. I know a thing or two about hydraulics.
But no. Here we are. His mouth opens on a square of sound that doesn’t come out for a beat, then floods the room, all high and animal.
“Who came?” I ask again. “Describe them.”
“Fuck—fuck—ah—” He curls around the pain. “I don’t know—nobody—”
I hit him in the ear with an open palm. Hard enough to make his inner world tilt until the truth starts sliding toward me.
“I don’t want to do this,” I tell him, and two seconds ago, that would’ve been honest. “But I’m worse at waiting than you are at lying.”
“I ain’t—lying,” he wheezes.
I hook the broken wrist over the arm of the chair, pin it there with my thigh. His other hand claws for leverage; I take it gently, place it on his knee, and lean forward until my forehead touches his.
“Listen to me. The woman across the hall? She’s a nice lady. Someone broke her chain. Left her coat. Left one boot. Scuffs on the floor. If I go back in and find so much as a hair that isn’t hers,I’ll come back here and break every bone in your body until you start remembering faces. Should we do that? Because you’re not giving me any better ways to spend my time.”
