Page 68 of To All the Guys I Killed Before

This time, my laugh is genuine. “What’s he listening to tonight?”

“The Jackson 5,” she says darkly.

“Yeah, that’s a weekend go-to.”

“Whyyyyyy?” she wails.

“One of his nannies liked Motown.” I let my tone imply the duh. “Just be glad it’s not Michael Bublé.”

“Oh my god, he is a monster.”

“Speaking of.” I lean forward to peer at the monitor. “The actual monster seems to have stopped screaming.”

“Better do something about that,” she murmurs.

“Agreed.” I pull myself to my feet and bend at the waist to stretch out my spine, then straighten and twist left, right, and left again.

“Keep me on the phone?” Fi asks hopefully. “The video sound keeps cutting out.”

“Because that’s so great for operational security,” I mutter. But I don’t hang up. The odds of anyone hacking our burners are low, and I don’t have the bandwidth to sweat it tonight.

Pulling my gloves back on, I let myself into the Chamber and lock the door behind me. Greg’s eyes are hazy with pain when I turn to face him, but he still manages a weak smile.

“Good. You’re back.” He’s got his affectionate voice going to the best of his abilities. “Rue-Bear, when are you gonna knock this off and let me go?”

“Let you go?” If that’s his new tactic, he must think I’ve dropped forty IQ points since we were together. But I can work with it. “I suppose that depends on you.”

“Anything.” He can’t quite pull off the warm smolder thanks to the finger lying on the floor near his foot, but he sure tries.

“I need information about one of your cases.”

There’s a moment of hesitation before he nods. “Okay.”

“Angie Timms.”

This time, the hesitation’s joined by an eye twitch before he puts on his courtroom demeanor. “She killed her boyfriend with a golf club. It’s an open-and-shut case.”

I make a small noise of disappointment. “I don’t think that’s true, Gregory. I think you like to protect evil men and prosecute innocent women.”

“No.” He shakes his head firmly. “The evidence⁠—”

I dart forward and press the tip of my knife against his inner thigh. “What evidence? I processed her boyfriend’s murder scene, remember? The golf club was never found, and Paul Franklin was killed with more force than even a woman could generate.”

“I-I… there’s evidence,” he insists. “It’s solid. It’ll⁠—”

I carve a long slice across the top of his leg. “You and I both know that woman did not kill her boyfriend.”

“She fucking did,” he shouts as blood soaks through his expensive jeans. “Bitch!”

“Her or me?”

His chest heaves, but he doesn’t answer. Probably for the best.

“Okay, so you say the evidence is solid, but I know for a fact it’s weak as hell.” I bend forward and jab him in the middle of the forehead with my pointer finger. It’s almost as satisfying as slicing his chin open. “Think really carefully about your next lie. Who messed with the evidence?”

“Fuck you.”

“We’re back to that?” I roll my eyes. “Not your best negotiation strategy.”