Page 54

I nod, not trusting my voice. Maybe the less I speak, the better.

He parks the car. It feels colder, so I'm wondering if we're no longer in the sun when the door opens and he reaches for me. He feels warm and familiar, and he smells like Torin.

He leans in close, and I wonder if he's going to hug me, but in the next second, his hand reaches for my blindfold and unfastens it. I blink, adjusting to the dim light. We're in some kind of parking garage. He takes my hand and walks me toward a beam of light.

It’s been years since someone held my hand. I like it, and I will die before I confess that to him.

“How do you have connections everywhere?” I ask him.

“Doesn't your father have connections everywhere?”

I nod. It's true, he does—enemies and allies, neutral parties and friends. He has a man for everything. I guess Torin is the same.

“Listen,” he says quietly. “Don’t ask any questions or talk to him unless I nod.”

What?

Torin stops walking as footsteps approach.

“McCarthy.” A low, snakelike voice meets us from the darkened doorway of a little hovel in the corner of the parking garage. The man is short and wiry, his skin the texture of old leather, his age impossible to place, somewhere between fifty and ageless, with eyes that move faster than the rest of him. “Got here fast for Boston traffic, eh?”

Torin nods. “Aye. Make it quick.”

“Of course. Come ’ere.” The man gestures toward an elevator. Torin brings me in, then turns to the man. “You're not allowed to have a conversation with her unless it applies directly to your search. Do you understand me?”

The man takes a step back, his eyes wide. “Yes, sir, of course, sir.”

“Glad somebody calls me sir,” Torin mutters, giving me a sideways glance.

I roll my eyes at him.

“I saw that,” he says. “We'll talk about that later.”

I’m trying not to think about what that conversation might look like when the elevator opens and we step into a dim, musty basement room lined with steel tables. An overhead fluorescent light casts a harsh yellow circle on the floor, where a lone folding chair sits.

The man clears his throat, scratching at his neck. “She's going to have to strip, McCarthy.”

“No,” Torin says flatly.

“I can't search for trackers if she doesn’t⁠—”

“I've already searched her from head to toe. I suspect it’s in her foot. She has no other visible signs of a tracker on her body, and if you ask her to strip again, I will break your fucking jaw. If you touch her, I’ll kill you.”

The man meets my eyes. I shrug. I don’t need convincing that he’ll do it.

I’m not sure what to do with that. A man who owns something protects his investment. But what I can’t understand is the way he said it. No performance or escalation, just facts.

The man throws his hands up as if to pacify Torin.

Torin’s unmoved.

I open my mouth to say something, but he cuts his eyes at me, and I remember his command: Don’t ask any questions or talk to him unless I nod. I press my lips together.

“Good girl,” Torin says, and his dark approval moves over my body like molten honey. His eyes flick over. “Check her. Now.”

“Yes, of course.” The man takes out something that looks like a metal detector and runs it slowly over my whole body, starting at the top of my head. I imagine mental tendrils, like a computerized spider, snaking through my veins. Nausea roils in my belly, and I start to shake.

Torin reaches for my hand. I take the lifeline. “What's the matter?”