Or anything other than the truth.
He hates me. Has always hated me. But he hid it well. The only thing I could never understand is why.
My voice is scratchy, my head still fuzzy, but I’m not that girl anymore, and he needs to know that.
“I’m surprised the FBI let you in,” I tell him. “Given your father’s giant clusterfuck of a Ponzi scheme. I suppose that’s the reason for the shiny new name, huh? I can only imagine how well that went over back home.”
His lips pucker and I’ve left a bad taste in his mouth, and it feels good. So, I go on. Because I never could fall in line.
“I bet you haven’t been able to show your face on the Upper East Side again. Tragic, really. That you’ve had to resort to a blue-collar job. I know it was always your dream to take over your father’s legacy. But I guess prison isn’t quite as glamorous as fortune 500.”
His vicious reaction shouldn’t come as a surprise to me, but some things never change. He backhands me twice and then seizes me by the throat, choking the air from me as he leans down into my face.
“You were the one who couldn’t show your face again,” he snarls. “My perfect little whore girlfriend. The cum dumpster for Marquardt Prep’s finest. Did you like having those cocks inside of you, princess? Because I’m sure it’d be no trouble to get the gang together again. For old times’ sake.”
I claw at his fingers until he shoves me away in disgust.
He knocks back the rest of his scotch while I catch my breath and imagine plunging my knife between his eyes. There’s no question in my mind now.
I was right all along.
He isn’t sorry. None of them are sorry and they are all assholes and they all need to die.
“I’ve been watching you for a while now, Ten,” he tells me once he’s calmed down. “Watching the way you operate.”
I don’t want to believe him. Because that would mean that I’ve been remiss in my number one priority. Looking out for predators.
And this man is the worst kind of predator.
The same boy who led me to my doom that night. I was the fool who walked hand in hand with him.
The years haven’t changed him. He’s not playing by bureau rules, FBI agent or not. And I don’t have to be a psychic to know this is bad. Really bad.
He retrieves a file from the table and yanks out a photo, dangling it between his fingers. It’s me. Last week. Following Storm and my target into the hotel room where she tortured and tattooed him.
I swallow, but the lump in my throat doesn’t budge.
“I don’t suppose I need to tell you how many felonies you committed that night,” he says. “Do I?”
There is no negotiating with terrorists. But he leaves me little choice at this point.
“What do you want?”
“That man was the son of a senator,” he answers. “Did you know that?”
I didn’t know that.
Fucking hell.
“You’re an intelligent girl, Ten. Or do you really prefer Scarlett now? It suits you. It suits the street whore you’ve become.”
He pauses, and smirks, and waits for a reaction. But fuck him and his dirty file and I need to get the hell out of this room. He grabs another piece of paper from the file and scans it with his eyes, reading off the information as he goes.
“The media would have a field day with this one. Given your family’s name, your affluent background and social status. The best prep school that mommy and daddy could buy. The girl on the fast track to Harvard, by all accounts. An unblemished academic record- until your disappearance. Your extracurricular activities make Mother Teresa look like a slacker. So, you can just imagine how many circulars would love to splash that headline across their front pages. Missing Deb turning tricks in Boston’s seedy underground. They’d probably call you an addict, for dramatic effect. Speculate on your family and your childhood and tear your world apart.”
He smiles, and his teeth are so white it’s creepy. Probably at least twenty grand in that mouth alone.
“What do you want?” I repeat.
