“Sexually?” he smirks. “Probably none, but I doubt that’s unusual for you.”
Before he can react, I hit his jaw so hard I expected a tooth to come flying out. The wanker deserves it for how much he had to lie to even suggest that.
I wipe the blood off my knuckles onto my shorts. “By action, I obviously mean violence. Anyway, the answer is none because I’ve been too busy trying to figure out how to edit a damn video to advertise a bloody hotel.”
The guard pulls back as I get down on my knees. I flip open the pocket knife, showing the shiny blade with a smirk. Then, I delicately run the sharp edge down his face and across his neck, pressing enough to cut his skin.
“So, let’s just say I’ve been itching to get my hands dirty.” He swallows a cartoonish gulp. Leaning forward, I speak lowly in his ear. “Tell me, would you rather see how far my knife can diginto your skin? Or should I get it over with and kill you? I’m not picky.”
I have no intention of killing this man. If I take him out on a whim, it’ll complicate things for us and the mission. But all the other stuff? Like I said, I’ve been itching to.
Hearing my threats, Thomas stands beside me. “He’s not kidding.”
The guard stares at me wide-eyed, stuck somewhere between disbelief and sheer confliction. Seconds later, he sighs. “Ryland.”
Finally. “Was that so hard, Ryland?”
Ryland parts his lips to speak, but Thomas interrupts. “Tell us what you know about the Beaumonts.”
He purses his lips, thinking of an answer. Then, he blurts, “Who are you people, really?”
I grab my knife and slice down his forearm, making a long, shallow but definitely painful cut. His muscles tense, and he mutters a curse as blood starts oozing from the gash. “We ask the questions.”
“Fuck you!” he shouts. Jesus, I hope these walls are thick. “You’re asking vague questions. How am I supposed to answer that?”
Ryland, albeit annoying, isn’t wrong. We’re pressing him for answers we don’t know we’re after, which makes the interrogation virtually pointless.
Thomas looms over the man. “By telling us what you know about the Beaumont family.”
“Everything I know, you know,” he sneers. “I’m only a guard. You guys enjoy wasting your time?”
With my blood pressure surging, I get up and kick him right in the chest. He’s gasping for air, and I’m about to go in with the knife again when Thomas pulls me away. He slams the closet door, leaving Ryland in the dark, and shoves me aside.
“He’s right; we are wasting our time. We need Mother to tell us what we’re looking for, or we may as well let the bloke go,” he whispers. “I’ll get her on the phone.”
We were tasked with gathering information on the Crowncrest, but also specifically on Kingsley Beaumont. Nothing more, nothing less. They’ve given us so little guidance that it’s almost like they’re testing Thomas and me to see if we can figure out their ridiculous game.
What has the Requiem so interested in Kingsley specifically? Aside from inheriting his family’s company, speaking in short sentences, and the death of his fiancée, there’s little remarkable about him.
The most interesting of the three is his fiancée’s death. Could it have something to do with Sylvie? Not sure why it would, considering her family is part of an organization within the Italian mafia—they have nothing to do with us. Right?
Thomas tries to walk off, but I grip his arm. “Hold on. I have an idea.”
I open the closet doors, and Ryland squints at the sudden light. “Sylvie Crenshaw.”
Ryland’s brows furrow. “What about her?”
“She was Kingsley’s fiancée, wasn’t she?”
He looks from side to side, dumbfounded. “Yes.”
I move in tightly, violating his personal space, and he shrinks away. “Tell me about her.”
“She was murdered.”
“When?”
“A year ago.”
