Killer Move - Michael Marshall [72]
“But why?”
She didn’t answer, just stared with a flat kind of unhappiness across the lot.
“Why have you done this to me?”
“Because it’s my job.”
“Where’s Stephanie? Have you done anything to her? If you have . . .”
“No.” The woman shook her head, a concise back-and-forth movement, as if economy of motion ran deep in her bones. “That’s not on me. I have no clue where your wife is. That is one of many things that have gone badly off-script in the last forty-eight hours.”
“Were you at my house?”
“When?”
“Yesterday afternoon.”
“No. Why?”
“I called, trying to track down Stephanie. A woman picked up the phone. She said the word ‘Modified.’ ”
The woman rubbed her forehead with her fingertips and looked pained. “Not me. Christ.”
“But you have been to my house. Right?”
“Why do you think that?”
“Because when I asked, you didn’t deny it. You just asked when I was talking about.”
“Shit. I must be tired,” she said. “Yes. I was there Wednesday morning, to put the pictures on your laptop.”
“You took those?”
“Not me. Someone I know.”
“How did you get in?”
“I have keys.”
“Why?”
“Why what? There’s a lot of whys here. You need to be specific.”
“Why plant the pictures?”
“Why do you think?”
“To make my wife believe I’d been spying on Karren.”
“Duh.”
“Did someone pay you to do this?”
“Maybe you’re not as dumb as everyone thinks, hey.”
“Who? Why would anyone do that to me?”
“I’m not at liberty to—”
Suddenly, and without warning, I lost it. I’ve never raised my hand to a woman in my life, but I wanted to pull this one’s throat out, break her nose, do anything and everything that would hurt forever. I needed to be sure, absolutely sure, that this woman didn’t know where Stephanie was and hadn’t hurt her in any way. I snapped around in my seat and lunged toward the woman’s neck.
I didn’t even see her hand move from the steering wheel, but then suddenly there it was, clamped around my wrist, arresting the forward movement in my arm so fast that I felt my shoulder joint twist.
“If you want,” she said, looking at me with cool blue eyes, “I can drag you out of this truck and do you in the lot. Right now. And I’m talking flamboyant, crowd-pleaser, playing to the gallery. Broken bones, rib kicks, with my hair down and chest stuck out so everyone sees it’s a girl busting you apart. What do you say? Want to press start on that?”
I tried to pull back, but she was too strong. Her eyes held mine, unwavering. The muscles in her face and jaw were hard planes of intent, and I could feel the long bones in my forearm being pushed together. I had no doubt that she could—and would—do what she’d threatened.
I’ve also been in many meetings in my time, however, sat face-to-face with a lot of people who aren’t revealing everything they know. I’ve seen what humans look like when they’re trying to hide something, to present only one side of a deal, when they’re playing poker with a guy they think is just a dumb-ass extra in their lives.
“You’re scared,” I said.
She blinked. “Excuse me?”
“You heard.”
“You know what, I am going to do it. I’m going to kick your fucking ass.”
“Not scared of me. I get that you’re tougher than I am, okay? Big deal. But you’re scared about something, and blowing up at me isn’t going to help you solve that.”
The grip on my wrist got even tighter, then she abruptly dropped my arm. She looked away, at the brick wall in front of us. The middle fingers of both her hands moved to press against the opposing thumb. She held them there, pushing hard for a few seconds, and then let go with an audible exhale.
“I need something to eat,” she said, as if the last conversation had not happened, as if she was a friend of a friend who just happened to be in the same car this sunny Friday morning. “Probably, so do you.”
The idea made me feel ill.
“Suit yourself.” She shrugged. “But you need rehydrating at least, or today is going to get worse and worse for you. And trust me, your baseline of expectation should already be set very low.”
She opened her door. “Are you coming,