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Her lip quivers and her voice trembles at the end of her sentence, giving away her fear. The tough girl act was convincing for a second, I’ll give her that.
“Is that so?”
“Yes. Yes, I swear to—”
“God. You mentioned that.”
Her mouth opens and closes, and I watch her as she searches for the right thing to say. The thing that will get her out of this. The problem is, it doesn’t exist, and I think she’s realizing it.
“Tell you what.” I lift my lips into a small smile. “Why don’t we go sit down? I’ll free your hands and pour you a drink. When you’re done answering some questions I have for you, you can tell me all about what a good secret keeper you are. Sound good?”
She takes several seconds to reply, but finally, she nods.
I lead her over to the couch and walk to the kitchen to retrieve a knife. There’s one stuffed under a cushion I could use, but I’m curious to see if she’ll try to get away while I’m out of sight.
When I step back into the living room, knife in hand, I frown. She hasn’t budged. My men really are pathetic.
“Here,” I say, walking up to her and flicking the knife in a ‘lean forward’ gesture. Her eyes latch onto the knife, but after a moment, she scoots to the edge of the cushion and bends to expose her hands.
I cut the zip tie and release her arms, and she immediately brings them to her chest and rubs her wrists.
“What do you drink?”
She glances up at me, then lowers her eyes. “I’m good … thanks.”
“You should have a drink, Polly. It’ll help you relax.”
She scoffs. “You’re going to kill me as soon as we’re done here. I’m not an idiot.”
“You stole a bag of heroin from one of my drug dealer’s. Are you sure you aren’t an idiot?”
“I didn’t know.” She looks up at me and blinks away tears. “I swear, I didn’t know—”
I hold up a hand to stop her before she starts rambling, and she shifts on the couch. Her eyes drop to her hands, and she runs her thumb over raw skin.
“Just tell me… Are you going to kill me?”
“That depends.”
“Depends on what?”
“On how useful you are.”
She shifts again and stops rubbing her wrists, laying them in her lap instead. She takes a deep breath, then another, and looks up at me. “Vodka.”
My lips tilt up, and I head back into the kitchen. I put the knife away before pouring Polly a vodka and myself a Cognac, and I bring both into the living room. I hand Polly hers, and she rests it on her lap.
I sit in a recliner adjacent to the couch and take a swig of my drink before resting it on my knee. Polly sits with her legs clenched shut and her shoulders hunched while she stares at her drink.
“So,” I say, leaning back and crossing one leg over the other. “Why don’t we start with your real name?”
“Polly Smith,” she says without looking up. The answer comes out fast and certain, and I almost buy it. She doesn’t even blink.
“Really?”
“Yes, really.”
“You’re a well-known thief who goes by their legal name. Is that what you’re telling me?”
