“Please,” he wheezes. “I didn’t—I didn’t know she was yours—”
“She’s not mine.”
The words taste wrong coming out.
I grab his jaw, force his head up. His good eye widens, pupils blown with fear.
“Where is she?” I continue, voice flat.
“I don’t know,” he gurgles.
I drive my fist into his ribs. Once. Twice. The sound of bone cracking echoes through the warehouse.
He screams.
I let him.
When he finally stops, I lean in close. Close enough to smell the piss running down his leg.
“You’re going to tell me everything you know about Ayla Smith,” I say quietly. “And if I think you’re lying, I’ll break every bone in your body before I let you bleed out.”
He’s sobbing now. “I don’t know anything—”
“Wrong answer.”
I grab his hand, spread his fingers against the metal chair arm. Vaska hands me a hunters knife.
“Wait! Wait!” He’s hyperventilating now. “She—she works multiple jobs! The diner, that bakery, some old lady’s house—”
“I know all that. Tell me something new.”
“She hangs around the docks. I’ve seen her there late at night.”
My hand stills.
The docks.
Something cold slides through my chest.
“With who?” I bring the blade to his middle finger
“Ricky Fuentes!” He shouts. “Fuck, please don’t.”
My head snaps to Vaska.
“Low level drug dealer, no affiliations,” Vaska mutters.
“When? When did you see them together?”
“I don’t know! A few weeks ago? Maybe more?”
I press the blade against his finger tighter. Not cutting. Not yet.
“What was she doing there?”
“I don’t know! I swear! I just saw her walking in that direction one night when I was—” He stops.
“When you were what?”
