Page 90 of The Sentinel

I swallowed the bile rising in my throat, ignoring the way my ribs screamed, the way my wrists throbbed from the zip ties cutting into my skin.

“Yes,” I whispered.

His nostrils flared.

He released me with a sharp shove, and my head snapped back against the chair.

Hart sighed. A slow, almost bored sound. “You’re stubborn.”

I didn’t answer.

She took a slow step forward, lowering herself into a crouch beside me. Close. Too close.

Hart’s lips pursed, her expression shifting from cold amusement to something sharper, something angry.

“You don’t have to be,” she murmured, tilting herhead as if she were speaking to a child who had disappointed her. “I don’t particularly want to hurt you, Claire.”

A cold, manic laugh bubbled up in my throat, scraping against my raw nerves. “Is that why you just had your pet gorilla use me as a punching bag?”

She ignored the remark.

Instead, she stepped closer, her eyes narrowing, the smooth veneer of her politician’s mask slipping just enough for me to see the rage simmering beneath.

“You just couldn’t leave it alone, could you?” she hissed. “It wasn’t enough for you to poke around, to stir up trouble where it didn’t belong. No, you had to go and put my name on your little show. You had to make me the headline.”

Her voice dripped with venom, and suddenly, I understood—this was what had sent her over the edge.

Not Diego’s death. Not my investigation. It was the podcast. The fact that I had turned my microphone on her. That I had exposed her.

She wasn’t just a politician. She wasn’t just a woman with power. She was a woman who needed control, who had spent years—decades—carefully curating her image, building her legacy piece by piece. And I had shattered it in an instant.

A million listeners, all digging into her life. Hunting for her. Turning over stones she had worked so hard to keep buried.

My pulse stuttered.

She didn’t just want me dead—she wanted me silenced.

Hart crouched beside me, her expensive perfume clashing with the stench of damp concrete and blood.

“You have no idea the mess you’ve made,” sheseethed. “Do you know how many people are looking for me now? How many eyes are suddenly watching? How many questions are being asked?”

I clenched my jaw, refusing to look away.

“Good,” I rasped.

Her hand snapped out so fast I didn’t see it coming. The slap cracked across my cheek, white-hot pain flaring through my skull. My head jerked to the side, my vision swimming for a moment before I forced it back into focus.

Hart exhaled slowly, straightening. The mask slid back into place, but I had seen beneath it now. I had rattled her. And that meant I had power, too. Even tied to this chair, bleeding, gasping through the pain—I had struck a nerve.

“Smart,” she continued, smoothing down the lapel of her coat. “Resourceful. And if things had gone differently, I think we could have been friends.”

I let out a shaky breath, tasting blood.

I turned my head just enough to meet her gaze. My vision was blurry at the edges, my breathing shallow, but I managed to lift my chin.

“Well,” I said, my voice hoarse but steady. “I have enough friends.”

Hart smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

---