Page 140 of Bottles & Blades

There isn’t a knife within finger’s reach and, even if there was, my wrists are tied so tightly I don’t think I’d be able to maneuver it beneath the zip ties without slicing off a finger.

Of course, is there really any comparison between losing a finger and losing my life?

Not, certainly, after I fought so hard to be able to live it.

Not now that I have something so wonderful to livefor.

So, I tamp down my panic, the fear that threatens to make me freeze and do nothing, and I scour the room for anything I can use to MacGyver my way out of this.

And as I do that, I listen.

The man is the one who’s clearly in charge, and if I hadn’t seen Angela in her full powers of bitch the other week at Chrissy’s house then I would have thought the woman in front of me was someone completely different—the good twin to the bad twin who is Jean-Mi’s hellish ex.

She’s cowed.

She’s sporting a black eye and a bruise on her throat that looks suspiciously like a handprint, along with cuts on her hands, wrists, and forearms (the latter of which I only saw when she shakily pushed her hair out of her eyes).

Pieces of a puzzle.

One that doesn’t make sense based on what I know about her, based on that single interaction with her.

But pieces I’m carefully gathering anyway.

“Where is he?” the man snaps.

I jump at the sharp question, not that I can go anywhere, but I jerk against the bindings.

Unfortunately, another piece of the puzzle is that Angela jumps too—and hers is paired with a flinch.

Damn.

“He’ll be here,” Angela says nervously, her eyes darting to mine. “Jean-Michel has barely been away from her. She texted and said she was on her way and didn’t show?” She shakes her head. “He’s probably already searching for her and it won’t be long before he’s doing it down here.”

She’s not wrong.

But that doesn’t make me feel any better.

Because Jean-Mi can’t walk into this.

Hecan’t.

“And he’ll make the transfer?” the man growls.

“Yes.”

“How can I know?” His question is cold. Angry. “You failed with the video feeds?—”

I still, stomach twisting.

The feeds atChrissy’shouse?

The ones Angela had been trying to hack into?

“Ididn’t fail,” she says, frost enteringhertone. “Your team was slow and incompetent and fucked up on their task.” Her chin lifts. “Thankfully, I delayed Jean-Michel long enough so they could slip out without being seen.”

Shit.

What else had they planted at Chrissy’s place?

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