He looks at my hand, pointedly ignores it, and leans towards Maggie instead.
‘I was hoping we’d get a moment,’ he says, eyes roaming her face with an intimacy that makes my jaw clench. ‘You look… delicious. Being home suits you.’
Maggie’s fingers curl in my shirt. And a flare of protectiveness wells up in me. Which is insane, because I barely know her. Outside the kidnapping and all.
‘She’s quite busy with wedding prep, and I’m sure you’re here to celebrate the bride and groom, not to pester your ex.’
Eddie finally looks at me properly. His gaze is cold and calculating.
‘No one asked you.’ He turns back to Maggie as if I’ve ceased to exist. ‘We should talk. Alone.’
The casual entitlement of it makes me want to launch myself at him. Which would be unadvisable if he’s the killer Maggie claims him to be. Which looking at his demeanour, I could very much imagine.
Maggie inhales shakily, before steadying herself. ‘I’m not going anywhere with you.’
Eddie’s face contorts with rage for the briefest of moments, before it washes with an unsettling calm. Gone so fast I might have imagined it.
‘Youalwayssay that,’ he replies.
I don’t like the certainty in his voice.
Before I can think better of it, I guide Maggie away from the table by her hand, hating turning my back on him. Eddie gives me some serious creeps.
This protectiveness I feel is stupid. I should shove Maggie at Eddie and get out. She kidnapped me. I shouldn’t feel anything towards her. Her hand in mine calls me a liar. The way I weave my fingers through hers, and don’t hate it.
We round the corner, and the tension drains out of her in a long exhale, her face paling.
‘I hate him so fucking much,’ she breathes out.
‘You don’t say. He has the sort of face that you want to punch, huh?’
She nods, then freezes. Her eyes locked on to something over my shoulder.
‘There,’ she whispers.
I turn.
Priscilla stands at the counter with her back to us, crushing a pill with the base of a spoon. Her movements are methodical, like she’s done it a hundred times before. She sweeps the powder into a glass with ease, and stirs.
My stomach drops.
‘See?’ Maggie hisses. ‘I told you I wasn’t crazy.’
I give her a look.
‘Okay, I’m notcompletelycrazy. In that way.’
‘I love the way your nose scrunches when you’re indignant.’ The words slip out before I can catch them, and Maggie’s eyes widen before dipping back over my shoulder.
We hover, pretending to be engrossed in each other, watching as Priscilla lifts the tray and walks away, pill bottle in hand.
‘Come on,’ Maggie says, tugging my hand.
We follow at a distance, skulking around corners like we’re in Scooby-bloody-Doo, until Priscilla stops at a cabinet. She opens it, slips the bottle inside, and locks it with a decisive click before sliding the key into her pocket.
Maggie deflates, frustration written all over her pretty face.
I glance at the cabinet, then back at her. ‘Didn’t learn lockpicking in murder school?’
