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“Where did you meet Danny?”
“At a bar.”
“Who approached who?”
“I-I approached him.”
“Classy,” Brennan retorted.
“Callum was murdered over a year ago.”
“Yeah? And you didn’t know where he was for the most part,” he snarled. “No body, no death certificate.”
Before he could piss me off by calling her a whore—the double standards with these mobsters were annoying—I demanded, “What was Danny’s job?”
“He was some kind of pencil pusher! I’m telling you I don’t know that much about him!”
There.
Just the faintest of flickers beside her mouth—right at the corner.
“You’re lying.”
I pulled out a sapphire nail file, which she studied with flared eyes as she started wriggling backward on her ass.
As if that would stop me.
“I’m not!”
“You are,” I rasped, kicking my booted foot against her dislocated shoulder.
When she screeched and fell back, I grabbed her ‘good’ hand, holding it firm as she struggled despite the pain, then I popped the tip of the file beneath her thumbnail.
As I levered against it, she released an agonized scream that made her wails of before look mild in comparison.
“No lying,” I said simply when her acrylic and real nail were on the ground.
She stared at me with wild, dazed eyes, her hand cradled against her chest as blood gently spurted from the wound, dribbling down her jacket.
Bewilderedly, she whispered, “He worked for some kind of agency.”
“A modeling agency?” I mocked.
Staring down at her nail-less thumb, she whispered, “No. He was in law enforcement.”
“Did you know when you approached him?”
Her mouth trembled. “I did. I’d heard him talking on the phone outside.”
“What made you approach him? Revenge?”
“No!”
Lie.
“Liar,” I rumbled, jerking the nail file at her until she was scrabbling away from me, dragging her ass against the ground.
As I chased her, she cried, “No! It wasn’t revenge!”
