Relief hits me so hard my eyes sting.
‘But, if anything happens to me… You look after my gran. You make sure she’s okay, and you make sure that anyone who hurts me pays. If I die here, I’m going to haunt the shit out of you for the rest of your goddamned life.’
‘I promise it’ll all be okay.’
‘Funnily enough, I don’t believe a word of your promises.’
Glancing over at Roman, I inhale deeply. ‘Murderers we may be – well, not me personally – but we adhere to a strict code of conduct. We stick to our promises. The Hamilton word is worth its weight in gold.’
‘You know what they say about Judas and that bag of coins…’ Roman’s brow creases as he takes in the large gates we approach, inscribed with a dramatic H symbol.
The car slows as the iron gates loom. My stomach drops into my ass, and sweat gathers at the back of my neck.
This is it.
No more driving.
No more time to explain.
‘Right,’ I say, trying to inject some sort of levity into my voice. ‘Welcome to the family home.’
Without needing to announce my arrival, the gates begin to open.
14
ROMAN
I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.
Either way, I’m feeling somewhat hysterical as we enter the imposing gates, and even more so when they close behind Maggie’s car.
All I can hope is that she’s truly a stark raving lunatic, and that everything she says about her family and her ex is a manifestation of her delusions. The pervasive sense of doom that settles over me as we head deeper into her family’s domain tells me that that small hope is a fallacy.
Every inch of the place screams old money, from the impressive ironwork on the gates and fences, so ornately twisted and sharply pointed, to the insanely long gravel drive that crunches under the tyres. Not to mention the security. Cameras are everywhere. Visible, to deter trespassers, I guess, but I imagine many more hidden from view, too.
The idea of constant monitoring makes me uneasy. Which is ironic, considering I’ve made a living being watched by strangers.
Maggie looks as unsettled as I feel. Returning home shouldn’t feel like a chore. Gran’s house never did. Even with her needling me about relationships on a regular basis.
Stretching out my fingers, I wince. My wrists have been attached to the door all day, and everything is stiff. Well, noteverything, but my shoulders, arms and wrists ache. I’m not used to feeling vulnerable. I’m used to being the biggest bloke in most rooms, and building a narrative to be seen as I choose to be seen.
And now I’m out of my depth.
Completely at mykidnapper’smercy.
God help me.
Maggie brings the car to a stop and reaches across me. I flinch before I can stop myself, and she rolls her eyes. Metal dimly flashes as Maggie pulls a knife from the centre console. The crazy bitch is actually armed.
‘Don’t crap your pants, just hold still,’ she murmurs, her curls all up in my face as I try to back up, but I’m pressed against the seat already.
‘I can’t exactlynothold still,’ I say.
‘And I’m trying to rectify that.’ She saws through the plastic zip ties with quick jerks. They give way with a soft snap, and blood rushes back into me so sharply it stings. I roll my shoulders and flex my fingers, very tempted to grab the door handle and make a run for it.
Maggie doesn’t look at me. She returns to her stoic grip on the wheel. Her eyes fix on the driveway ahead, jaw clenched.
‘Don’t try anything stupid,’ she says.
