Page 157 of House of Cards

Of course he did some more digging when I didn’t satisfy his curiosity around the diner fire. Question is, what did he unearth?

I glance at Smith’s profile. The streetlights cast shadows across his face that make him look even more dangerous. It doesn’t help that his glasses reflect the passing lights, hiding his eyes. I have no idea what he’s thinking…but that’s not new, is it?

“Why are you doing this?”

“Doing what?”

“This.” I gesture wildly. “This.Letting me go. Driving me home.” I swallow hard. “Being so nice after…after what you just did to me.”

After what we did to each other.

“I made a promise.”

“Since when do men like you keep promises?”

“Men like me?” We stop at a traffic light, the engine silent. He turns in his seat to give me his full attention, but I keep staring ahead, refusing him the satisfaction.

I shrug. “Sadists. Men who get off on other people’s pain.”

“That’s what you think I am?”

“It’s who Iknowyou are.” I look down at my hands, surprised they’re not trembling. “You enjoyed hurting me.”

“And you enjoyed being hurt.” His voice drops to that dangerous rumble that makes my skin prickle and my insides clench. “What does that make you, Zoey?”

I say nothing. Because he’s right. I did enjoy it. Every degrading, agonizing, blood-soaked moment of it.

Whatdoesthat make me?

The light changes, but he doesn’t pull off. The street is empty, the only headlamps those of a car far up ahead.

I look at him and wish I hadn’t.

There’s a touch of something else in his usual stern expression—concern, maybe. Or maybe just more curiosity.

“What happened at the diner?”

“You don’t know?” I say lightly, flicking damp hair over my shoulder.

“Cause of the fire is still unknown.”

Still…like he’s keeping an eye on the papers for updates. Maybe he has an inside man at the police. Because I’m sure they’re investigating the fire, too.

God, what if I get Ricky back and still end up going to jail?

“You think I know what caused it? I was in your casino that night, allegedly stealing your money. Pretty airtight alibi, if you ask me.” I’m inching closer and closer to the edge of this conversational cliff, and all that waits below is a sea of sharp spikes. I point at the traffic light. “It’s green. You should go. You’re blocking the road.”

“I think you’re hiding something.”

“So what if I am?”

“What kind of trouble are you in, Zoey?”

I hold back a laugh, but can’t help the sardonic smile spreading on my lips.

Trouble? Jesus, that’s putting it mildly.

Smith waits so long for my reply that the light changes back to red, trapping us.

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