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“Fine. But I get to ask the first question,” I say flatly.
“No, I do. I’m the one who suggested it, so I get to ask first.”
I roll my eyes. “Then ask, stop wasting time.”
Clearing her throat, she picks up her head again and sits up straighter. She’s making an effort to appear more present, maybe even trying to put herself on my level.
“Where are we going?” she asks, suppressing a quiver in her voice.
I finally light my cigarette from before, comically irritated at how long I’ve had to wait for a smoke. “I can’t tell you the address or anything. I can tell you what it’s for. That’s it.”
Her face grows pale as my words begin to sink in.
We’re goingsomewhere.
She’s shaking now, and her anxiety is palpable no matter how hard she tries to push it down into her stomach.
“Okay, then tell me what purpose it serves. That’s a really weird way to word your response, by the way,” she says, hoping that I’ll reiterate my meaning into something less threatening.
“It’s an old barn where my company keeps inventory,” I reply, feeling somewhat guilty for withholding information from her.
“Oh, right, you’re a‘business owner’. What kind of inventory do you keep there?” she asks, growing emboldened by the fact that her negotiation worked.
I take a long drag, opening the window to let out the smoke as the crisp night air rolls in. “Nope, I answered your question. Now you answer mine.”
She scoffs, but she can’t betray her own terms. “Fine. What’s your question?”
“What’s your full name?” I ask.
She’s getting better at tempering her breaths, but the dark is closing in on her by the minute. She’ll be spilling her guts by the time we get to the building.
“Vera Augusta-Marie Davenport,” she says, spitting out her name like a fishbone.
“Damn, you got four names and only one of them is any good. That’s rough,” I reply, unable to keep a mean-spirited chuckle to myself.
“You fucking asked, asshole. Now it’s my turn again,” she snarls.
This method of extracting information from her feels juvenile and undignified. It feels more like the beginning of a tepid date than an interrogation.
“Right, then stop wasting time and ask your question,” I say as my displeasure and impatience grows more obvious.
The tension between us has formed a heavy, thick cloud, far more oppressive than the smoke from my cigarette. I would go back in time and leave this brat in a swarm of panicking idiots if I could.
“What kind of inventory is being kept in the barn?”
I lean my head back into the headrest of my seat, stifling an internal scream.
“You need to ask different questions if you want this to work out for you,” I reply through my teeth.
Instead of collapsing under the weight of her terror, she scoffs at me. “Well, that’s enough to tell me what I need to know, so thank you for that. I should have known you didn’t have a real company to run. What kind of businessman chooses to meet a prospective partner right next to a row of toilets?”
Her assessment is scathing, I’ll admit. I was annoyed with Johan when he informed me of his desired point of contact, but I knew better than to challenge him.
There goes my credibility with Vera.
She’s correct, however. My refusal to answer her question tells her enough to let her know that I’m not a good guy. Maybe this revelation will inspire her to cooperate with me more.
“That means it’s my turn again,” I say.
