Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 53361 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 267(@200wpm)___ 213(@250wpm)___ 178(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 53361 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 267(@200wpm)___ 213(@250wpm)___ 178(@300wpm)
The weight of betrayal pressed down on my chest until I struggled with each breath. If I’d been a stronger person, I’d have called up Detective Reeves and told him to shove those other two bugs up his ass. But I was nobody. My parents might have clout, but I didn’t. No matter what I did, I would be the loser in this story.
Behind Marcus, rain lashed the windows with renewed fury, as if the storm had been gathering strength just like the pressure building inside me. A flash of lightning illuminated the café, briefly turning everything stark white before plunging back into the warm, golden glow of the overhead lights.
Thunder followed, a deep, bone-shaking rumble that seemed to come from everywhere at once. I flinched, the sound too close to the roar in my own head.
“They made me do it,” I finally whispered, the words escaping in a rush of air that left me dizzy. “I didn’t want to.” I shook my head almost violently, holding on to Marcus’s hand like a lifeline. “I swear I didn’t want to.”
Marcus remained perfectly still, only his eyes moving as they searched my face. “Who?” he asked, the single word carrying the weight of promised retribution.
“Detective Reeves,” I said, his name bitter on my tongue. “And his partner. Mercer. They -- they pulled me over yesterday. When I left the compound. They took me to the station and showed me photos they’d fabricated. Of me. With drugs and --” I broke off, unable to continue.
Marcus’ jaw tightened, a muscle jumping beneath the skin. “They’re blackmailing you.” I nodded, the movement jerky and uncontrolled. My hands shook harder in his grip. “The kitchen,” he said. “That was you.”
It wasn’t a question, but I nodded again anyway. Shame burned hot under my skin, making my face flush despite the cold sweat breaking out across my forehead. “I didn’t know what else to do. They said they’d destroy my life. That I’d go to prison for drugs and prostitution.” The irony of confessing this to a man who’d served six years wasn’t lost on me. “I’ve been homeless before. I can’t -- I can’t go back to that. I found out a lot about myself when I left London to come back to the U.S. on my own. One was that I could never be homeless for any length of time. I did twenty-four hours in county lockup for vagrancy once and found out pretty quickly I’d never survive in jail either.” I took a breath. “I doubt Reeves or Mercer know about my fears, but it felt like they knew what I was afraid of the most and exploited it.”
Another rumble of thunder shook the windows. The rain fell in sheets now, a solid wall of water visible through the glass. I could barely make out the shapes of people running for cover on the sidewalk outside. My body wouldn’t stop trembling. I felt like I might shake apart, come undone completely right there in the middle of the café with everyone here to witness. Marcus’ hand tightened around mine, trying to still the violent shaking, but it was useless. I was coming apart at the seams.
“There’s more,” I whispered, my voice cracking. “They gave me three. I only planted one. The others --”
My purse, which had been balanced precariously on the edge of the table, chose that moment to slide off. It hit the floor with a soft thud, the contents spilling across the worn wooden planks. Rolling out like an accusation, two small objects that looked innocent enough to anyone else but unmistakable to Marcus. The remaining listening devices.
Time seemed to stop. The café noise receded to a distant hum. I watched Marcus’ gaze lock onto the tiny betrayals lying exposed on the floor between us. His expression didn’t change. Not a flicker of surprise, not a flash of anger. Instead, a stillness came over him more frightening than any rage could have been. The kind of stillness preceding violence in nature.
Slowly, with deliberate movements reminding me of a predator trying not to startle its prey, Marcus released my hand and bent down. He gathered my scattered belongings, carefully setting each item on the table between us. Then, with the same measured control, he picked up one of the listening devices between his thumb and forefinger, straightening to examine it in the light.
Around us, the café continued its normal rhythm. The barista called out drink orders. The college students laughed at something on a phone screen. The musician switched to a new song, something with a faster tempo, clashing with the frozen moment at our table. None of them noticed the crisis unfolding in their midst.
Marcus turned the small device over in his fingers, his dark eyes assessing it with clinical detachment. “Knight said these were expensive,” he said, his voice so quiet I had to strain to hear it over the ambient noise and the blood rushing in my ears. His gaze shifted from the bug to my face, his expression unreadable. “Makes sense Reeves would have access to them.”