Page 120 of Ethan & Grace

That voice. It sounded familiar, yet it clearly wasn’t Claude Asterdam’s. There was a softness to his, whereas this one had a firm, commanding edge. Not harsh, just assertive in its tone. The realisation turned all my theories about my kidnapping on their head.

“You’ve injured yourself,” the voice observed.

My captor now stood right beside me. I couldn’t see him, only sense him. He reached for the broken glass in my hand and tried to take it, but I wouldn’t let him. I slashed it through the air as far as my restraints allowed.

I heard a sharp hiss cut through the air. I’d got the bastard.

Satisfaction coursed through me.

A moment later, the door flew open again, and heavy footsteps pounded towards me. I barely had time to react before I was grabbed. I started thrashing wildly, but it was like struggling in quicksand. The more I fought to escape, the tighter the strong arms locked around my chest. The broken bottleneck was wrenched from my grip.

“Please, don’t be so rough with our guest,” the voice said.

The person manhandling me as if I were a toddler grunted and, astonishingly, eased up a little. He dragged me away from the shelf and shoved me back onto the chair. Moments later, I heard the rip of duct tape.

Panic surged through me again. If they tied me down, I was done for. I kicked frantically, landing a few blows, but the man wasn’t deterred. He caught my feet easily and taped them to the chair legs. I tried kicking my feet, hoping the tape might give, but it was too tight.

“Calm down, Miss Claymore,” my captor repeated.

Calm down? How the hell was I supposed to calm down?!

“You can go,” the man ordered his thug.

There was another grunt, and then the sound of retreating footsteps.

I tried to stand again, but with my legs bound, it was impossible. My tugging and struggling only made the restraints cut deeper into my skin.

“Miss Claymore,” the voice began. I hated how he said my name. “Stop. Nothing’s going to happen to you.”

Something had already happened to me. Still, I gave up the fight. It was hopeless, and probably wiser to save my strength. Perhaps there would be a better chance to escape later.

“Thank you,” my captor said once I’d stopped struggling. Where had I heard that voice before? “If you promise not to scream, I’ll take off the gag and give you something to drink. You must be thirsty.”

I was. My throat felt bone-dry. I could barely swallow, and my jaw ached—whatever had been shoved between my lips forced me to keep my mouth open.

“Will you stay quiet?”

I nodded reluctantly.

Shards of glass crunched under my captor’s feet. Standing beside me, he removed the gag. It was an instant relief. My jaw cracked as I closed my mouth. A bottle was held to my lips. I took a first small sip, but as soon as the drops trickled down my dry throat, I couldn’t hold back. I drank greedily, though it made my empty stomach protest with sharp cramps. Doubling over, water ran over my chin, my neck, my chest.

“Do you want more?”

“Later,” I said. My voice was hoarse and didn’t sound like mine. I considered breaking my promise and screaming, but the fear of being gagged again held me back. I needed a moment to breathe. “Who are you? What do you want from me?”

“I think you know the answer.”

“Amy,” I whispered. It was the only logical explanation, even though it definitely wasn’t Claude Asterdam I was speaking to. But this whole situation had to be connected to the accident and the letters—there was no other explanation. “Did you run over my sister?”

“No, but unfortunately, I’m caught up in the matter now.”

I frowned. “What do you mean? Did Mr. Asterdam hire you?”

“No. Claude has nothing to do with any of this, though I’d be curious to hear how you and Ethan ended up suspecting him,” he replied. His steps echoed through the cellar as he circled me. “I did briefly consider letting you keep barking up the wrong tree,” he said, “but I couldn’t risk letting the situation get out of hand.”

Maybe it was because I’d been locked up for what felt like an eternity and my mind was still hazy with panic, but none of this added up; it was full of contradictions. He hadn’t killed Amy, but he also wasn’t working for Mr. Asterdam. Had someone else hired him? It didn’t sound like it. He couldn’t risk letting the situation get out of hand—it sounded like he was personally involved. But how could that be if he hadn’t run Amy over? Unless he was lying. But why would he need to lie to me now, in this situation?

“What do you want from me?”