I pull the knife out. "That was a quarter note," I say.
I look at the metronome.Tick. Tock."Wait for the beat, Marcus."
I wait. He is panting, sweat pouring down his face. He is watching the metronome now. He is anticipating the next tick.Tick.Nothing.Tock.Nothing.Tick.
I strike. Shoulder. Trapezius muscle. He screams again. "Eighth note," I say.
"You crazy bitch!" he yells. "What do you want? Money? Codes?"
"I want a location," I say calmly. "Where is he?"
"Graves is dead!" Marcus spits blood. "We hung him up and gutted him!"
My heart stammers.Gutted.I picture Alaric hanging. I picture the blood I gave him draining out onto a concrete floor. A wave of nausea hits me, but I shove it down. I convert it into fuel.Show me the monster.
"Liar," I say. I grab his chin, forcing his head back. "Alaric Graves is the hardest man to kill on this planet. If he was dead, you wouldn't be boasting. You’d be relieved."
I bring the knife to his face. "Let's try a triplet rhythm."
Tick.I cut his cheek.Tick.I cut his other cheek.Tick.I press the blade against his eyelid.
"Where is he?"
"I can't tell you!" he sobs. "Thorne will kill my family! He has protocols!"
"Thorne isn't here," I whisper. "I am. And unlike Thorne, I don't have voters to answer to. I don't have a conscience to appease."
I lean closer. "I am a widow, Marcus. Do you know what a widow is capable of when she has been denied her body?"
I move the knife down. To his hand. His left hand. I splay his fingers on the armrest of the chair. "I'm a pianist," I say. "I value hands. They are precise instruments."
I place the tip of the knife under his fingernail. "Where?"
He stays silent, trembling. I push. The nail lifts. He screams. It is a raw, guttural sound that fills the small room, bouncing off the walls. I don't stop. I remove the nail. I toss it on the floor. It makes a tinyclick.
"Where?"
"Please..."
"Wrong key." I move to the next finger.Tick. Tock."The tempo is dragging, Marcus. Allegro, please."
I take the second nail. He breaks. Men like him always break. They train for torture, for electric shocks, for waterboarding. They don't train for a girl in a black dress conducting a symphony on their nervous system. They don't train for the metronome.
"The Factory!" he screams. "He's at the Factory!"
I stop. The knife hovers over his middle finger. "Which Factory?"
"The old textile mill! District 9! Thorne uses the basement levels for... for containment!"
"Is he alive?"
"Yes! Yes, he's alive! Thorne wants the accounts! He wants the Swiss codes! He won't kill him until he gets the money!"
I pull back. I look at Nyx, who has been standing by the door, silent as a grave. "Verify," I say.
Nyx types on her tablet. "District 9. Old textile mill. It’s owned by a shell corp linked to Thorne’s brother-in-law. High power usage. Heat signatures in the basement. It checks out."
I look back at Marcus. He is weeping, cradling his mutilated hand. "I told you," he sobs. "I told you everything."
