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Its delicate point makes me gasp when my animal brain is sure it’s the knife.
But the switchblade taps against Paisley’s pink lower lip while she looks at me as sulkily as a little girl getting called out by her big sister.
“You know exactly how much you owe,” she hisses. “You know what you owe me.”
“I don’t,” I repeat desperately.
Because really, that’s the problem.
I’ve never known. It’s not my debt.
It’s Dad’s.
And I’m suddenly afraid that hidden log book might have something to do with this, after all these years of Paisley shaking me down and taking every penny of profit I make as an installment payment on some nebulous sum.
I’ve always thought she refused to tell me the real amount Dad owed her so she could just keep milking it for the rest of my life, however short she might decide it will be.
It’d be oh-so-easy to claim I have more left on my debt if I never know the balance—and maybe she’s charging interest. She’d probably do it just to screw with me, when I know the bottom-of-the-barrel scrapings she shakes out of my pockets wouldn’t even buy her a new pair of her designer shoes.
Why does she bother?
But now I’m wondering...what if there’s always been more to it?
What if my father was in deeper than I ever realized?
And if he really did end up in staggering amounts of debt owed to the Lockwood syndicate, or if...if...
Oh my God.
Did my father steal from the Lockwoods?
Is that why she hasn’t killed me yet?
Is that why she enjoys this cat and mouse thing so much?
Because she thinks whatever he stole can be recovered somehow?
I don’t know how I didn’t figure that out before.
Sadly, I don’t get a chance to dwell on it.
Paisley sways back from me with a slow, cunning grin, her eyes glittering with sadistic anticipation, and I know what’s coming next.
“Such a shame,” she purrs.
I shake my head quickly.
“Don’t,” I say, and it’s so humiliating to beg. Then again, I think anyone would with their life and livelihood on the line, seeing a promise of pain and ruin in those shining green eyes. “Listen, Paye, I just got this place back together, and if you really want money from me, you can’t keep trashing my only source of income—”
Paisley snorts derisively, one corner of her mouth quirking up in a cruel sneer.
“You think I care about your coffee jar tips, Little Miss Barista? You couldn’t earn what we’re after in ten lifetimes. But since you missed your last two payments and you’re being so stubborn and rude tonight...”
She flicks her fingers at her men, pretty manicured fingernails flashing in the light. Her goons smile like jackals.
“Shake it down, boys,” she croons in this exaggerated gang mol accent.
“No!”
I fling myself off the stool, race over, and—
And draw up short as that switchblade stabs toward me so fast I hardly see it move.
I’ve only got a split second to stagger to a halt with my heart beating right through my chest as it stops under my chin.
I’ve never seen her without that thing.
She holds it like a lover, caressing it with her thumb, and keeps me captured with her snake-like eyes.
Forced to hold still.
And listen, helplessly, as the wanton destruction begins.
I don’t know what it says about my life that all I can think is, at least it’s not as bad as last time.
They tip over some chairs.
They stab at bags of packed, vacuum-sealed grounds, ripping them open in explosions of brown grains and rich aromas.
They fling napkins and brochures in the air like confetti.
One of them rips open the confectionery case and stuffs little petit fours into his mouth until his teeth are all gummed up with cake and he’s grinning crumbs.
But there’s no broken glass, thank God.
No blood flying everywhere—especially mine.
Not when I know what they’re really after.
And when I hear the rattle and jingle of the cash register, I just close my eyes and wait for it to end.
They won’t get much. Not when it’s already been closed out for the night, bank bags in the safe and waiting to be dropped off tomorrow.
Only they won’t make it there, not when those gorilla goons barge into my office next, and I’m just stuck here with Paisley holding me at knife point.
She watches my face like she’s getting high off the salty smell of every bead of sweat pouring down my brow.
Holy Hannah.
From the noise in there, I’m pretty sure they’ve torn the safe clean out of the wall.
Once again, counting my small blessings.
Even if my office is a destroyed wreck of drywall, at least it’s not a customer-facing area that will scare people off from the catastrophe.
A few minutes later, one of the goons comes swaggering out, trailed by the others. He’s practically sulking, his face a comical mask of disappointment.
