Page 98 of Deadly Force

Brooke

The air reeks of old ink and something chemical. Faint, but sharp enough to sting. Beneath it, the wet chill of stone seeps through my clothes, curling low in my spine.

Until today, I’d always wondered what the basement housed. Now I know. Nothing but countless boxes of ink, and chemicals we no longer use now that we’re digital only.

I keep praying the same Psalm over and over.Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,I whisper the words like oxygen,I will fear no evil, for You are with me.

Lawrence is distracted, on edge, constantly checking his phone, his watch, and walking to the basement door.

I don’t have to think too hard about why.

He’s too much of a coward to kill me himself.

He’s waiting for someone else to do it.

A bitter taste rises in my throat. But it’s not fear, not entirely. It’s the weight of clarity of knowing that,despite all my mistakes, I’m not as afraid to die as I thought I’d be.

It’s the anticipation and the silence that’s torture.

I swallow hard and tug at the restraints, running my fingers along the plastic cord again, desperate for some give.

Whatever he used, it’s too tight. The circulation’s already starting to cut off. My fingers are tingling, slow to respond. It won’t be long before I lose feeling completely.

"Let's try this again," I say, eyes locked on Lawrence. "My guess is you’re being blackmailed. Am I right?"

He doesn't answer, but something in his expression flickers—a flash of rage so pure it makes my skin crawl.

I lean in, as far as the bindings allow. "So it’s not about motive. It’s about leverage. What dirt do they have on you?"

He doesn't move, but his hands clench into fists at his sides. Two years of working for this man, and I'm just now seeing what was always there underneath.

No answer, but his breathing has changed. Harder. More erratic.

His gaze flicks up, and there's something predatory in it.

"You had my tires slashed. Locked me in that room on campus. But you aren’t a killer, Lawrence."

His face tightens. "I didn't want it to go this far," he mutters.

"But it did."

I watch him. Closely. He's unraveling. Fast.

"What do they have on you?" I ask. "What's so bad that you’d watch me die to hide it?”

The question hits him like a physical blow, and for a moment, his composure cracks completely. What I see underneath isn't shame, it's fury. Pure, unadulterated rage that he's been found out.

His eyes flick away, then snap back to mine, hard, defensive. “She looked older. They all do—act like they’re twenty—then I’m the one who’s in the wrong.”

He drags a hand down his face, but there’s no shame in the gesture. Just the brittle edge of a man annoyed he has to explain himself.

My stomach twists, but I hold steady. “How young is Juliette?”

He doesn’t answer.

Doesn’t have to.

Something shifts in his stance just enough to tell me the number’s lower than I want to know. Lower than he’s willing to say out loud.