She tilts her head. “What do you want me to do? Cry? Beg you to stop? Would that make you feel better about yourself?”
I step toward her slowly
“What I want,” I say, “is for you to stop pretending.”
“I’m not pretending anything.”
“You’re hiding something.”
Her jaw tightens, just slightly. “There’s literally nothing for me to hide.”
The man coughs wetly again, dragging my attention back.
I grab his hair and force his head up. “You’re going to tell me who sent you.”
He mumbles something, thick with blood.
“Louder.”
“Kaya,” he gasps. “Gabriel Kaya.”
Behind me, I hear Ayla’s sharp intake of breath. So small I almost miss it.
I freeze.
I turn to look at her. Her face has gone still. Too still. The kind of stillness that comes from practice.
“Gabriel Kaya,” I repeat, watching her. “You know that name?”
She crosses her arms over her chest. “Everyone knows that name.”
“You work for him? Run drugs for him?”
She shakes her head. Too quickly. “No.”
Liar.
I step toward her, closing the distance until I’m standing right in front of her chair. “You’re lying.”
“I’m not.”
“You’re too fucking calm Ayla.” I point at my captive, “Do you know him?”
I drag her chair in front of his. Their knees grazing. Her eyes meet his.
“No.”
I backhand him hard enough for a groan to escape. “Do you know her?”
His one good eye trails her form. He shakes his head. “I don’t—”
That’s all he gets before I press the barrel of my gun to his temple and pull the trigger.
If Ayla made a sound, I didn’t hear it over the shot.
Her eyes go blank. Her body stock still.
No scream. No flinch.
