Leroy tests his restraints, pulling against the ropes Hans tied around his wrists. “What did you give me? Poison?”
“Something like that.”
Blue pushes off from the wall, moving closer. “How are you feeling, Leroy? Any symptoms yet?”
“I feel fine, you psychotic bastard. When I get out of here—”
“You’re not getting out of here,” I interrupt. “But please, continue your threats. They’re entertaining.”
Leroy keeps ranting about what he’s going to do to all of us whenhe escapes, but after a few minutes he starts sounding slightly slurred around the edges.
“Is too quiet in here,” Hans observes, glancing around the basement. “Maybe we need some music, Boss? Like the good old days when you always set your scenes to music. Has been long time.”
Blue’s face lights up. “Excellent idea, Hans. You’re absolutely right.” He moves to an ornate phonograph I hadn’t noticed before, sitting on a carved wooden table between the wine bottles. The machine is gorgeous—brass fittings gleaming despite their age, a massive horn speaker that flares out like a morning glory, and intricate scrollwork decorating the mahogany cabinet. “Let’s set the proper mood.”
He selects a record from a collection stored beneath the phonograph, places it carefully on the turntable, and winds the mechanism with ease. The needle drops onto vinyl, and suddenly the basement fills with the smooth, dark tones of a jazz standard about love and death intertwining. Perfect murder music.
“Oh, I love this song,” I say, starting to sway slightly in my chair. The music makes everything feel less like torture and more like... dinner theater. “Perfect choice.”
“Leroy,” Blue says pleasantly, “you’re very lucky. Not everyone gets live entertainment during their final moments.”
Hans starts nodding along to the bass line, his massive frame moving surprisingly gracefully. “Is very good song. Very... how you say... fitting.”
I can’t help myself—I start humming along, then quietly singing the chorus about dancing until dawn breaks. My voice echoes off the stone walls, turning the basement into an intimate concert venue.
“Feeling dizzy yet?” I ask Leroy sweetly between verses.
“I feel perfectly—” Leroy stops mid-sentence, blinking hard. “Actually, my mouth feels weird.”
“Weird how?”
“Tingly. Like when you eat too much pineapple.” He works his jaw experimentally. “What the hell did you give me?”
“Just wait for it.”
Two more minutes, and Leroy’s words come out thick and clumsy, like his tongue isn’t working right.
“My vision’s getting blurry,” he says, sounding concerned for the first time since I’ve been down here.
“Mm-hmm.” I check my watch again. “Right on schedule.”
“Blue, seriously. What did she give me?” Leroy’s question carries a note of panic now. “I can’t feel my fingertips.”
Blue examines his fingernails with casual interest. “I have no idea. This is Saylor’s show.”
“My heart’s beating really fast.” Leroy tries to lean forward, but his coordination is clearly off. “And I’m having trouble focusing on... on...”
“On what?”
“I can’t remember what I was going to say.” Leroy blinks slowly, like thinking requires enormous effort. “What’s happening to me?”
“Well,” I say cheerfully, “the good news is you’re about to find out what all those people you tortured felt like. The bad news is you’re about to die.”
Leroy tries to surge forward in his chair, but his muscles aren’t cooperating. “How long do I have?”
“Not long now.”
Leroy turns back to me, his pupils now huge and unfocused. “Please. I’m begging you. Just... just use a knife. Something quick. This isn’t... this isn’t right.”
