“What’s this?” I touch the spot with my thumb.
She flinches. “I fell,” she whispers. “When I was seven, I had a bike accident.”
It looks like a bike accident, not a knife wound or a bullet hole.
I straighten up.
“Leggings.”
“No.” She shakes her head again, trying to cover her chest with her arms. “You can see. I’m not hiding anything.”
“The Syndicate brands the thighs,” I say. “Stars for the Captains. Roses for the whores. Which one are you?”
“I told you I’m a florist!” she screams.
“Then show me.”
I step back, giving her space but keeping the knife visible.
Slowly, with shaking hands, she shoves the black leggings down and steps out of them. She’s standing in nothing but white silk panties, shaking so hard her teeth are chattering. Fragile. Breakable.
I walk around her, checking the back of her legs.
Nothing. No ink. No scars. No transmitter. She’s clean.
I stop in front of her again. She refuses to look at me. She’s hugging herself tight, staring at the floor, defeated.
I look at her neck. There’s a bruise forming there. A dark purple thumbprint. My thumbprint.
I don’t usually feel guilt. But seeing that mark on her skin twists my gut.
She really is innocent. She was fixing the flowers. And I cut the clothes off her body at knifepoint.
I holster the knife and unbutton my own shirt, shrugging it off to reveal the white T-shirt beneath. I hold the black button-down out to her.
“Put it on,” I say.
She eyes the shirt, then me, but doesn’t move.
Stepping forward, I drape the shirt over her shoulders. She grabs the fabric, pulling it tight around herself like a shield. It hangs to her mid-thighs, swallowing her small frame.
She looks up at me then. Her eyes are red-rimmed, accusatory. “Are you done?” she whispers.
“For now.”
“I hate you,” she says. “I hope you die.”
“Get in line.”
I bend down and scoop up the pile of ruined clothes. I reach under the bed to retrieve the soap bottle and swipe the file folder off the coffee table. I’m not leaving potential evidence or tools in the cage with her.
“There’s water on the bar,” I say, straightening up with the bundle in my fist. “Drink it.”
I walk out and shut the door. The lock engages with a sharp click.
I stand in the hallway for a long moment. My heart is beating slower now, but heavier. I lift my hand and look at it. It’s steady. But I can still feel the warmth of her skin against my palm.
I need a drink.
