“Did she give you something?”
“She was having a myocardial infarction, Mr.
Holbrook,” I said, my voice dropping into that quiet, fifty-decibel register that cuts through corporate boardrooms like an industrial saw:
“I was performing chest compressions until the state patrol arrived.”
“Did she give you a folder?”
Carter pressed, his knuckles tightening against the top of the door frame until the leather of his gloves groaned:
“A red-wax-sealed vellum portfolio from the glove box of that Maybach?”
“No,” I replied.
“Are you certain, Sebastian?”
Nick chimed in, leaning over Carter’s shoulder with an ugly, sycophantic grin:
“Because Sebastian has a terrible habit of taking things that don’t belong to him.
Like our agency’s time.
Like our clients’ patience.”
Carter Holbrook didn’t laugh.
He stared at the blood on my cuff for three seconds in absolute, terrifying, un-blinking silence.
