Page 5 of Tank's Temptation

“If I thought you could kill me with it, then maybe I wouldn’t have.”

A flicker almost becomes a smile. It dies before reaching her eyes. She opens the water, smells it, and drinks.

She sits on the far edge of the bed. “What crime do you actually think I committed?”

“You stole records from a man who does business outside the law and tried to sell them back to him.”

“That’s Harlan’s answer. I asked for yours.”

“It’s the information I was given.”

“So you don’t have one. You dragged me out of a motel because a criminal said I was also a criminal, and nobody asked why the supposed blackmailer has a smashed phone, no car, and seven dollars in her wallet.”

“Harlan said Morrow had the money.”

“Daniel Morrow was bleeding on the ballroom floor when I ran.”

The words come clean and immediate, with no pause to build drama and no glance to see whether they landed.

“Okay, so what kind of gun was used?”

“Black semiautomatic. I don’t know the model. Harlan held it in his right hand, and the muzzle jumped when he fired. There was one shot while I watched. I heard another near the service stairs, but I didn’t see who fired it.”

“Where were you?”

“Upper gallery, east side. I was photographing plasterwork before demolition. The river doors were chained, so I went through the kitchen and out a broken window when two men came up after me.” She lifts her bruised wrist. “One caught me near the landing. I hit him with the side of my camera, broke my phone when the other slammed me against the wall, and got free when the railing gave. My camera was set to continuous high. One-eight-hundredth shutter speed, ISO thirty-two hundred,eighty-five millimeter lens. The images won’t be pretty, but they’ll be sharp enough.”

Too exact for panic. Too technical for something invented tonight. It could still be rehearsed. People have built better lies for less money. But Harlan described a willing partner who knew what she was taking and how to profit from it. He didn’t describe someone who can tell me which ballroom doors were chained because she tested them while running for her life.

“Unlock the account now. Let me see.”

“No. You’ll erase the photographs before Harlan even reaches the gate.”

“I don’t work for Harlan.”

“You abducted me from that motel on his orders.”

The answer lands where it should. “I took you because Kane accepted the contract.”

“And that’s supposed to make me feel better?”

“No.” She studies me, perhaps expecting an excuse I don’t give, then eats two bites of the sandwich without tasting either.

Her still damp shirt clings across her shoulders. The room is warm, but she keeps shivering in small bursts she tries to hide. I open the second dresser drawer and take out a clean black T-shirt.

“What are you doing?”

“Your clothes are wet. Put this on before you freeze.”

She looks from the shirt to me, suspicion fighting discomfort, then snatches it from my hand. “Turn around.”

“Fine.” I face the door.

Fabric rustles behind me. My shoulders lock as I picture the torn shirt lifting over her head and the body I felt pressed against me on the bike. I stare at the chipped paint above the lock and remind myself she is here under an order. She cannot walk out, and whatever my body wants is irrelevant.

“You can turn back around now.”

The shirt reaches halfway down her thighs. The sleeves hang almost to her elbows, and the black cotton makes her skin look pale against the bruises. The sight hits somewhere primitive. My room, my bed, and my shirt against her body.