Instead, she wandered.
I settle deeper into the chair, narrowing my eyes at the screen.
In the footage, Jordan studied the severe metal sculpture on its pedestal. She tilted her head and extended her fingers,brushing—almost petting—the sculpture’s razor edge. As if calming a rabid beast.
What the fuck was she doing?
Next, she caressed the back of the leather sofa. The leather hardly rippled, but she lingered before drifting toward the massive gray stone fireplace. A showpiece. Not a hearth. She placed her palm flat against the cold wall. Closed her eyes. Listening, tuning herself to the silence in the rock.
I bend over the monitor, frowning.
This wasn’t a performance for me. She does this when she believes she’s alone. No casing the room or inventorying weaknesses. No glancing at exits or threats. She’s not scheming. She’s forging some weird communion with the furniture.
Ridiculous. The most backward, infuriating thing I’ve ever watched.
But I can’t glimpse away.
Most people I escort to these places fall into neat, familiar patterns.
They scope out windows, jiggle the doorknobs, prowl for phones, weapons, and exits. Their eyes flick from object to object, drawing invisible lines through the room, measuring. Survival instinct seizes most people, even when they know resistance is pointless.
Jordan Elizabeth Thorne?
She pets sculptures. Listens to the empty echoes of the fireplace. Treats a lump of metal with more care than most people spare for each other.
A strange, hollow ache swells in my chest. Maybe envy. Maybe worse.
I push the sensation down before the shape transforms into anything real.
I’ve tallied her strengths. She’s beautiful and graceful and has sharp, intuitive eyes. But she leaves them untouched, gathering rust. Not a weapon. Not even a tool.
She has no idea what she could be.
She has no concept of her worth.
My eyes flicker to the current feed.
She’s still hunched in her new cell, her lips moving wordlessly.
Despite a weird composure underneath, as if she’s cut some kind of deal with her terror and refuses to break first, tears track down her face.
I see the strength she possesses, buried under all the spiritual bullshit.
The waste irritates me.
But there’s no need to act on that observation.
She’s not going to be around long enough for any of this to matter. After she gives me what I need, she’ll become another loose end to tie up.
Clean. Simple. Final.
Jordan
For a heartbeat, I’m hovering in that sweet, empty limbo, knowing I’m asleep and can enjoy the escape before hunger drives me from my bed to the kitchen faucet to fill up on water.
Then memories flood my mind.
A stranger. A car. An alley spattered with bodies and blood. The cold click of the lock and the scent of metal and rust.
