“Each one of us will have a shoebox. The task is simple. With your blindfold on, you will put your hand in and guess what’s in the box. If you get more than six correct, you can come. Questions?”
“Will it bite?” one asks.
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
“Is it alive?” another one asks.
“This feels gross,” another one mumbles, so only we can hear.
“Maybe. Maybe not,” Harry answers.
“Is it safe?” Gemma asks.
“Maybe. Maybe not. If you want to leave, you can. Otherwise, we will begin the selection process.”
I glance to Gemma, who shifts, but doesn’t move to leave.
“This doesn’t feel right,” I admit as Harry walks up and down the line. He stops in front of Gemma, looks her up and down, bites his lip, reaches out his hand. But instead of grabbing hers, he grabs my tie.
“Mine,” he says, pulling me to him quickly as I fall into his chest. His hard chest. The waft of his aftershave runs straight into my nose. It’s thick, sweet, and cheap.
I pull a face.
“You’re next, Carl.”
Carl walks straight to Gemma and pulls her by the tie. She does the same, falling into his chest. But whereas I’ve pushed off him quickly, she falls into him and grips his biceps, peeking up seductively.
Well fuck, she isn’t going anywhere.
Harry leans forward, unties my tie, and leads me towards a shower cubicle at the end.
“Ladies first,” he says, holding out his arm.
I take a deep breath and step into the cubicle.
25
Kara - Present
“Youneedtochangethe dressing.” Andrews nods to the blood that has seeped through to the blue shirt I’m wearing.
I pause, holding the fork to my lips, and glance down at the bullet wound. I shrug and pop the piece of chicken in my mouth. The three of us sit round a large wooden table in the dining room of Andrews’ plush safehouse in Weybridge.
This was less a safe house, more luxurious mansion.
Owen is silent, and still raging.
He’s clenching his teeth, the flitter of his jaw as he grinds his molars together. He’s staring at his food, where it remains uneaten, his own fork pushing the meal around the plate.
“Eat,” I instruct. Our eyes meet briefly over the thick wood, and he makes a point of taking a huge bite of food from his fork.
Petulant arsehole.
“If you’ll excuse me,” Andrews says, standing. “I think you two need to have a conversation.” He walks towards me and kisses the top of my head. “Clear the air, little one. I fear he may stab you with that fork otherwise.”
“Or you,” I muse as he reaches down and squeezes my shoulder gently. I place my hand over the top.
“And change your dressing. I’m going to see whether there are any leads, then we need a plan.”
