“Wait, sir! You can’t go down that hallway. That’s for employees only!”
I was already moving.
The narrow hallway smelled like industrial cleaner. I checkedeach door. Janitor’s closet. Bathroom. Supply room. And then, at the end:OFFICE—BRETT FONTAINE, MANAGER.
Jackpot.
I didn’t knock.
The door slammed against the wall hard enough to knock a frame off its hook. The man who I could only assume was Brett jolted up from his desk, his face going from annoyed to alarmed in record time.
“What the fuck? Who are you?”
“Are you Faith Morrison’s manager?”
His face went pale. No, not pale.Translucent.Like a ghost who’d seen a bigger, angrier ghost.
I’ll take that as a yes.
I slammed the door behind me with enough force to rattle the blinds. “We need to talk.”
“Get the fuck out of my office before I call the police.”
He grabbed for his phone. I was faster, yanking it from his soft fingers and slamming it onto the desk. Then I grabbed him by his five-hundred-dollar shirt collar and introduced his back to the wall. Hard.
“What the fuck!” he wheezed, hands clawing at my grip.
“You laid your hands on her.”
“Faith?” he spat, as if shocked any person would ever stick up for her. “She’s a psycho killer.”
Wrong answer.My grip tightened. “Her shirt was torn.” She didn’t even realize it, but it was torn. Three inches down from the collar.
His eyes darted toward the door. “I’m going to call the cops!”
“Please do.” I leaned in close enough to see the capillaries in his bloodshot eyes. “Because my guess is, she’s not the first woman you’ve put your hands on. And listen to me very carefully, you piece of shit. I’m your worst nightmare. I’m a lawyer with virtually unlimited resources and absolutely nothing better to do than destroy you.”
His Adam’s apple bobbed against my knuckles.
“I will spend every waking hour digging through your past. Every skeleton, every dirty secret, every woman you’ve ever wronged. I’ll find them all, and I’ll bring them to court to point their fingers at you. I’ll build a civil suit so comprehensive, so devastating, that they’ll be garnishing your wages until you’re ninety. You’ll be living in a roach-infested studio apartment, crying into your dinner of expired ramen, wondering where it all went wrong.”
I pressed my forearm against his throat, just enough to make breathing difficult. “And just when you think it can’t get any worse? Just when you’re about to break? I’ll find a new way to fuck with you. Because that’s who I am. I’m the guy who doesn’t give up. Ever.”
The mistake came next. Brett shoved me back and swung, his fist connecting with my jaw. Pain bloomed across my face, copper flooding my mouth.
I touched my lip, felt the blood, and smiled.
“Now, that wasn’t very smart.” I rolled my shoulders, something dark and satisfied unfurling in my chest. “Virtually everything I do now can be deemed self-defense.”
My first punch hit his eye socket. The second slammed into his jaw. He went down like a sack of worthless shit.
But I didn’t stop.
My foot connected with his ribs. Once. Twice.
His whimper was music.
The image of Faith’s torn shirt flashed through my mind. The tears on her face. This strong, fierce woman reduced to running away because of this piece of garbage.
