Page 24 of Spiders in the Grove

“Well, I know we talked about acting like I was too good for conversation to keep people from getting too into my business, but…I kinda went another direction last minute.”

My left brow hitches up. “Yeah?” I question suspiciously.

“It just happened,” she explains. “But it felt more natural in the moment.” Her tone changes from nervous to proud. “That’s the work of a real actress, a great actress: go with what feels right; it always makes for a more believable character.”

“Tell that to Spielberg,” I say.

“I’m sure Tom Cruise tells him all the time,” she comes back.

I shrug. “Yeah, you’re probably right.”

Wait—am I really having this conversation?

“Look,” I say, “I don’t care what role you’re playing, as long as you don’t get yourself killed, or your cover blown.”

“Aww, are you worried about me, Niklas?” she teases.

“Well, of course I am,” I say. “You die and I lose all my damn money.”

She laughs, and it’s obvious she doesn’t believe my reasoning. “OK, bad-boy Nik, you keep telling yourself that.”

I grin. Just a little.

I end the call relieved. Relieved that Jackie is alive and seems confident she can keep it that way. Relieved that Izabel is right where I expected her to be. And even more relieved that she’s in a position that poses less of a risk to her life.

Going into this, I had no way of knowing if Izabel would be at this auction, but it was the only one scheduled in that area, and seemed like a no-brainer.

I wish I could tell myself to sleep well tonight, but I’m not at home, unfortunately. And I won’t be sleeping.

Slipping my cell phone into my front pocket, I turn back to the dimly-lit room, and to the man sitting in the chair, watching me.

“You won’t get away with this,” he warns. “When this is all over, my men will hunt you down, and they’ll kill you.”

Casually, I take a seat on his expensive sofa, kick my dirty boots up on his expensive coffee table, and pluck a cigarette from my sixty-dollar jacket.

I light up, taking my time.

“When this is all over,” I say, take a drag and hold it in my lungs, “as long as you do what you’re supposed to do, maybe you’ll be alive to tell your men to hunt me down.”

He snarls at me; he wants to beat me to death right here in his living room, but that’s not likely to happen.

I look over at his daughter; she sits quietly, tight-lipped, her hands tucked between her thighs.

“Does she know what you do?”

“Leave her out of this,” he demands.

“I’m not the one who brought her into it,” I point out. “You were, Mr. Lockhart.”

“Daddy, what is he talking about?”

“Don’t worry about it, baby.”

She looks scared. She should be. Frances Julietta Lockhart’s ‘daddy’ is a murderous piece of shit who likes to dip his shriveled-up dick in women he terrifies into submission.

He looks to me again, though always aware of the gun in my hand.

“Two more days,” I tell him. “I hope you have beer; I like to have a beer on the weekend.”

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