Page 113 of Trust

There’s a chance he’s only a numbers man. Criminals have accountants too. But accountants know where the money flows.

“Try again,” I say, circling behind him, smelling his fear. I pull out a thin steel cable and loop it around his neck, winding it taut until his face flushes and his breath hitches. I drag out the words, savoring the sound of air being stolen. “Take all the time you need to think about your answer.”

The tremor in his shoulders signals the terror clawing at him. Right before he blacks out, I loosen my grip and step back. He collapses into his chair, eyes rolling, lungs bellowing for oxygen.

He chokes and coughs and tries to find his words again, searching his wife’s eyes for comfort.

“Well?”

I catch a slight movement across the table. A tiny shake of her head. A warning clear in her expression.

You have to be kidding me.

I slide the cable back into my pocket and fold my arms.

“Megan? You are M. White?” I ask. Who would’ve thought? I might have to rethink gender roles.

I pick up the largest knife and drag the tip along the wooden tabletop as I stalk toward her. The sound is soft and clinical, a promise more than a noise.

“Do you want to tell us what’s on your mind?” I ask, ripping the tape from her lips.

She snaps to life, shaking her head hard enough to strain her neck. “Please,” she chokes. “They’ll kill us all.”

I snort, amused. “What do you think I’ll do if you don’t talk?” I let the silence stretch. “It’s your choice, though. Either you keep quiet and die now, or you spill and I give you a chance to run.”

I turn to the professor. “Want to do the math for us and calculate the probability of survival?”

He begs her through split lips and swelling, voice ragged. One eye is already blooming purple. Worry fills her eyes at the sight of him. That’s the lever I need.

I slide the knife beneath her chin and push up, enough to make her jaw ache, not enough to cut. “Come on,” I coo. “What do you know?”

“Can you be a bit more precise?” she whispers.

“Mmh.” I ease the pressure, savoring her panic. She could be involved in more than I know. “My bad. Does the name Whitmore ring a bell?”

There it is. The name went straight to the sore spot. She swallows hard.

When she still doesn’t answer, I slam the knife into the table, making her whole body jerk.

“I lured her out of the house. Mariana was my friend. He made me call her and ask her to meet me. I thought he’d just scare her to shut her up.”

Her words tumble out in heaving sobs.

“What did he threaten you with?” I press. My gut tells me she’s not an evil person. At least not as evil as I can be if she withholds what I’m here for.

“I was pregnant then,” she cries. “A secretary at Whitmore’s office. Mendoza said he would make sure the child was never born if I refused.”

“Mendoza,” I echo. I thought she meant Sara’s father, but of course Whitmore’s right hand fits too. If he triggered Mariana’s death, he’s tied to the Board. He also set up Stix with Whitmore. That means the Board already knows Sara’s not in rehab. Which means—

A vibration rattles in my pocket, breaking through my thoughts. Stix.

I hold a finger to my lips, instructing the Whites to keep their mouths shut, then answer.

“What?”

“Did you kill him?” Stix barks.

I glance at the professor, confusion flickering. “Not yet?”