The guard doesn’t need to answer the question.
Within moments, Terry approaches us from the opposite end of the corridor, arms akimbo as if he just spent the last couple of hours pumping weights at the gym. He nods once at the guard who makes a discreet exit.
“Talk to me,” Terry says. One hand is on the holster at his waist; his cell is in the other. “My stepsons won’t buy into us having a friendly chat in the basement without informing them of your whereabouts first.”
“Please don’t tell them I’m here. Not yet. I just want to speak to George?—”
“No can do.” Terry is adamant. “What happened to your face, Remy?” He has kept his distance, not advancing past the room where George is being held.
I consider lying for approximately three seconds and decide that he will see straight through me. “It was George. He did this to me.”
“Okay.” Terry lowers his hands, and I suck in the first full breath that I’ve taken since we left the room on level fifty-seven. “Give me one good reason why I should go against Cash’s wishes and let you in there without his knowledge.”
“I need to speak with him… about something sensitive.”
He folds his arms across his chest. “You’ll have to do better than that.”
“It’s about me,” Isabella steps in.
“No.” I place a hand on her arm to stop her from saying any more. If this doesn’t work and her parents find out that she’s pregnant with Alessandro’s baby. “You don’t have to say anything, Isabella.”
Terry’s gaze jumps between the two of us, sizing us up. “Did she put you up to this?” he asks me.
“No. This was my idea.” It’s true enough. “It won’t affect Cash and Bash. I want you to believe that I would never do anything to undermine them. I just want to help Isabella.”
His expression is neutral. I expect him to remind me that the woman standing next to me masterminded my abduction to get what she wanted. But instead, he says, “I can’t let you do this alone, you understand that?”
I nod. “Thank you.”
“I must be going soft in my old age, but I believe you.” He glances at the door and unhooks a heavy set of keys from his holster. “Rule one: I tell you to leave the room, you leave. No arguments.” I nod again. “Rule two: you say something I don’t like, I take over.”
“Okay.” At this point, I would agree to any conditions he set upon me entering that room, but I keep this to myself. He’s only acting in the best interests of me and his family.
“Rule number three: when my wife and stepsons threaten to cut off my balls and feed them to the birds in our garden, you tell them that you threatened me at gunpoint.”
I smile. “Deal.”
He unlocks the door without hesitating, and I wonder if he’s doing it before the rational part of his brain convinces him that it’s a terrible idea.
As agreed, Isabella waits outside the room.
Inside, George is sitting at a plain square table, his wrists cuffed to the back of his seat. He looks up when we enter and does a double take when he sees me.
“Remy? What are you doing here?”
He is still wearing the same suit as when I saw him last, but it no longer deserves the obviously expensive price tag. Smeared with soot, the jacket is crumpled, half hanging from one shoulder. Beads of glue still cling to his grubby face, and red lines crisscross the whites of his eyes. George Quinn looks as if he broke into a store to steal the suit and then climbed through a dumpster wearing it.
“Hello, George.” My palms feel clammy, and I hide them behind my back so that he doesn’t notice. I sit across from him, and Terry waits in the corner of the room.
The door is still ajar.
“Did they bring you here to get me to talk?” He opens the conversation without an apology for hurting me. “I’ve told them already, I’m not saying a word without my lawyer present.” He shoots a look at Terry who ignores him.
“They haven’t asked me to do anything.”
“So, why are you here then?” His beady eyes grow even beadier, and he squints as if in pain. “Where’s Isabella? Did she put you up to this?”
“Why would she do that?”
