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A good hour later, Elliot finally exits. I try to read his expression, but his face is blank. Whatever they discussed must’ve pleased Gus, because ten minutes later, Gus makes his way to Elliot’s desk with a shit-eating grin.
Patting Elliot on the back, he says, “Let’s go grab some dinner. Seafood?”
Elliot gets up and takes his jacket from the back of his chair. “Why not?”
Wait. What? Elliot and Gus going out for dinner? That’s new. Gus often eats out in the week when he entertains clients, but he’s never invited Elliot.
I ponder their sudden bonding for all of five minutes before worry about my crime and the life-long power Elliot holds over my mom consumes me again. Who’s to say he won’t blackmail her with something else in the future? I have to find a way of getting my hands on all the formats of those photos. I can ransack his room and his desk here at the office, but I doubt I’ll find anything. Elliot may be a coward, but he’s not a fool. He wouldn’t have hidden the evidence anywhere where it will be easy to find.
Knowing him, he probably saved the photos somewhere in an encrypted file in cyberspace. He either trusts someone else to give the photos to Gus if anything happens to him, or he wrote a clever program that will email the images automatically if his will is accessed or his email account at work is closed, which is standard procedure if employees are fired or deceased. None of them resign. They’re too scared. Once they’ve fallen into Gus’s web, it’s impossible to leave. The secrets they know endanger their lives.
At the end of my shift, I quickly tidy the kitchen so that I can slip out and leave unnoticed, but I’m unlucky again. Leon enters as I’m wiping down the counter. My body flushes hot with guilt as well as with my earlier annoyance. Only sheer willpower allows me to keep an innocent face.
Studying me with singular attention, he advances slowly. My already rocketing heartbeat triples. Does he suspect something? I can’t help myself from backing up to the sink, not taking my eyes off him for a second.
“Do I scare you, Violet?” he asks in a low, husky voice.
“No,” I say, clutching the counter behind me.
His lips quirk as he stops in front of me. “Liar.”
I lift my chin with false bravado. “Should I be scared?”
When he reaches out, I flinch.
He hesitates with his hand in mid-air before taking the leap and cupping my cheek. “Probably.”
The warmth of his palm seeps into my skin, burning me like a branding iron.
“Do you like to hurt women?” I ask, trembling inside.
“No.” The answer is honest, without pretenses. “But I’ll do what I must to keep what’s mine.”
The response doesn’t surprise me, but it still jars me. It’s open to too many interpretations.
“Come on,” he says, walking to the door without waiting to see if I follow.
There’s no way I’m going to his place, not after what I’ve done and especially not knowing what can happen. I don’t take a single step.
Not five seconds later, he’s back, walking toward me with purposeful strides.
“What are you doing?” I cry out.
“You had plenty of opportunities to ask your questions.” He takes my handbag from the cupboard and gently arranges the sling over my shoulder. “That door has closed.”
“How do you know where I keep my bag?” I ask, stalling for time.
His smile is wise, like he knows what I’m doing, but the gesture also holds a measure of sympathy. “I know everything that matters.”
My heart skips a beat. A lump lodges in my throat. No, not everything. He doesn’t know how I betrayed him in the most despicable way to save my mom.
Wrapping one strong arm around my thighs, he lifts me like I weigh nothing and throws me over his shoulder.
I utter a shriek. “What the hell are you doing?”
“I told you, darling,” he says, making his way to the stairs. “It’s too late for questions.”
“Put me down,” I cry out, pounding my fists on his back.
My kicking and punching has no effect on him. He carries me effortlessly up the stairs and across the parking lot to the Lexus before putting me down.
The minute my feet hit the ground, I try to make a run for it, but he grabs me around the waist and pushes me against the car. The air leaves my lungs with an oomph as my chest is pressed flat against the window. Holding me in place with his knee against my lower back, he unzips my handbag.
“Let go,” I hiss, struggling to free myself.
“Keep still, and I will.”
“Is there a problem, Miss Starley?” a man asks.
I turn my face to the side. The night guard stands next to us, his hand resting on the shaft of the gun in his holster.
