Page 2 of Wicked Things
I know how deep my voice is. I can hear it reverberating inside my skull every time I open my own mouth. I’ve seen people pale so thoroughly at the menacing timbre of my voice that they’ve looked like they’re about to pass out. Eli is no exception. He swallows, the wattle in his throat bobbing like a goddamn turkey’s on Thanksgiving morning.
“You.” An accusation. “I believe our business is at an end, Mr. Mayfair,”
Huh. So he’s remembered my name. Unsurprising, really. I paid him a small fortune to win the bid on Sloane. I also threatened him with extreme violence if he screwed me over in any way. Or if he tried selling her to anyone else after me. I know how these motherfuckers work. He’ll have told her just once. And then, when she’d completed the task, he would have turned around to her and demanded a second and a third time, until she wouldn’t have even blinked at handing over her body in exchange for what she needed. It’s a trick (and a currency) as old as time.
“You’re mistaken,” I tell him, my words forming more fog that hangs in the air between us. “Invite me inside.”
He blinks, half closing the door, using the wood a shield between us. “I’m afraid I have an appointment with a client shortly. Now isn’t a convenient time. You’ll have to call and schedule a ARGGHHH!” He yelps as I spring forward, planting my hand on his face, fingers splayed wide, shoving him back inside his office. He staggers back three or four steps, unbalanced, his great bulk threatening to send him crashing backwards into the coffee ring stained table that sits in the middle of the room.
“What…? What thefuck?” he cries. The inside of his office is dimly lit, composed mostly of browns and cream walls that were probably once white. The cramped space stinks of sweat and stale cigarette smoke. An overflowing ashtray sits on the floor by his desk, which is cluttered with empty takeout boxes and countless dog-eared stacks of paper. Eli’s chest heaves as he watches me taking in his little corner of heaven.
“Wow.” I curl up my top lip in disgust. “Looks like your cleaner hasn’t been by in a while, huh?”
“Screw you, Mayfair. This is my office. I can keep it however I want.”
I shrug, moving over to the cracked leather chair that sits opposite his own at his desk. I sweep the pile of papers that are perched on top of the chair to the floor, and then I sit myself down. Eli’s eyes are bugging out of his head. He looks like he’s about to have a heart attack.
“Sit down,” I say, my tone as congenial as possible. “You and I are going to have a conversation.”
“I would like you to leave. I’m serious. I have a client, and I—” He stops talking the instant I turn my head toward him and he takes in the look of murder of my face.
“Sit. Down. Eli.”
He squirms inside his skin as he slowly makes his way around his desk and collapses into his chair. “You got what you wanted,” he says, panting. “You got the girl. What more can you possibly want from me?”
I glance down at my right hand, casually studying my fingernails. “I want the file. I want to know what’s inside it.” I don’t know when it happened—when I decided I was going to look for Sloane’s sister. If I’m being brutally fucking honest, it was probably the second I laid eyes on the woman. I might not have known what dark secrets were looming over her at the time, but I saw the look of pain and suffering on her face, that look of sheer desolation, and a part of me recognized that I would doanythingto take that away.
Eli huffs a laugh down his nose. A manipulative shadow flickers in his eyes. “Well… you know exactly what the girl had to pay for that information. You footed the bill, after all. What are you willing to hand over in exchange for—”
“What is your life worth to you?” I ask, sighing.
Eli pales a fraction further; his already pallid skin is starting to take on a sickly green hue. “Well. Everything, of course.”
“Then I’m willing to give youeverything, as you so eloquently put it. I’m willing to leave this room without severing any of your major arteries,” I say in a bored tone. I return to picking at my fingernails.
“Mr. Mayfair, please…understand. This kind of information is not easy to come by. If I simply gave it out to anyone who came in here and threatened me, then…” He shrugs his shoulders, a wheedling, conniving expression on his face.
“I take it you understand the concept of bargaining?” I ask. “That’s what you’re trying to do right now?”
He pauses, and I can practically hear the stiff, rusted gears inside his head whirring. He’s trying to decide how he’s meant to respond, trying to ascertain if this is a trick question. After a drawn out moment, he nods just once, his double chin wobbling. “Yes.”
“So tell me. If someone offers youeverythingin return for something, how can they possibly give youmore? Surely any other deal they strike with you will be…less.” I shift my gaze to his face, letting him read the roiling storm of anger I’m barely managing to contain within myself, despite my apparently calm demeanor. He rocks back into the cradle of his chair, as if he’s just witnessed something purely terrifying.
“Yes. Y—yes, you’re right,” he stammers. “Forgive me.”
“I’m a very talented man,” I growl. “Unfortunately forgiveness is not part of my repertoire.”
“Yes. Yes, well…” He clears his throat, shifting uncomfortably. “What little information I have is in that filing cabinet there. I’ll get it for you now.”
“Don’t trouble yourself.” I rise out of my chair before he can even brace himself against the surface of his desk to heave himself up. He opens his mouth, his whole form radiating annoyance, but he pauses, obviously thinking better of saying anything when I shoot him a scathing sideways glance.
The filing cabinet is locked. I pick up the letter opener perched on the edge of Eli’s desk and jam it into the gap at the top of the drawer.
“Hey! Hey, you don’t need to do that. I have the…key.”
The draw pops open, the metal front of the top drawer denting a little as I bully it open. Inside, surprisingly ordered, neat, alphabetized suspension files are labelled in clear, blocky handwriting. I find Alexis Romera’s file in the second drawer down. It’s thin.Toothin. Removing it, I carry it back to Eli and sit back down. Inside the file: one sheet of paper.
I stare down at the brief, typed report in front of me, frowning in confusion. “What is this?”
