Page 37 of The Pleasure of Panic

“You probably don’t even know how to break out. You told me yourself. You’re not the best FBI agent, right, Murphy?”

“I meant,” he seethes, “that I’m not on track for promotion, Issy. Not that I was incapable of something as simple as getting myself out of zip ties. I have seen seven-year-olds get out of zip ties using their shoelaces, so let’s not pretend.”

I think about this for a moment. He’s kinda right about the zip ties thing. I mean, you gotta have time, and be in the right position, but they’re pretty simple to get out of if you have those two things.

“Let me out or I’ll… I’ll…”

I almost laugh. Because he doesn’t even have a threat ready.

“I won’t fulfill your fantasy,” he finishes.

My guffaw is loud enough to startle him. “As if!” I yell. “I’d never let you that close to me again.”

“You will, Ms. Grey.” He kinda snarls that part. “Because whatever is happening to you right now has nothing to do with some stupid sex game you’re playing with your lawyer.”

“I’m not playing with him. He’s just the—” Grrrrrr.

“He’s just the what? Facilitator?”

“I can’t talk to you about it, I already explained that.”

“Untie me and I’ll make sure you can talk about it. You do realize that an NDA is invalid if it involves a crime, right?”

“That’s not even true. Lots of people sign NDAs for like… settlements. And it usually involves a crime.”

“Those are usually civil actions. Not criminal. Look, you’re fucked if you don’t get someone on your side real quick, because this shit is happening. Someone called you in tonight. Someone set you up. Someone is out to get you. And if you want to add me to your enemies list, then great. Do that. But when you’re sitting in jail wondering where it all went wrong, I’ll come visit and remind you.”

I let out another long breath of air—

“Untie me.”

—and decide that he’s right. “Fine,” I say, walking into the kitchen to grab a knife from the silverware drawer, and then walk back over to him and bend down. “But if you make any sudden moves—”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, fuckin’ yeah. You’ll take me out. Got it.”

Asshole.

“Jesus Christ. Are you trying to saw my fuckin’ wrists off or what?”

“It’s a dull knife, OK? Just hold still.”

“Ow.”

“I never knew the FBI hired such wussies.”

But then the plastic snaps and I back away, because I’m pretty sure he’s lying about not trying anything.

They all lie. That’s the nature of people.

He’s quick too, up on his feet, reeling around to glare at me in seconds. But I’m all the way across the room.

He smiles. It’s one of those you-fucking-bitch smiles. I recognize it. Seen it plenty of times in the past.

But then he takes a deep breath, looks down at his wrists, holds them up as exhibit A, and says, “Just FYI, next time you zip-tie someone, don’t cut off their circulation.”

I sneer at him.

“Now,” he says, still glaring, but walking towards the door, “let’s go.”