Page 3 of Dirty Game

Phillip is dragged out through another door, leaving smears of blood on the plastic.

Varrick stands there, brass knuckles still on his hand, blood drying on his skin, and watches me watching him.

"Rosalynn."

I push the door open fully, stepping inside, because running now would be worse.

The room smells like the violence I just witnessed—blood and fear-sweat and something else, something unmistakably dangerous.

"Mr. Bane." My voice comes out steady, barely above a whisper. "I couldn't sleep."

He moves toward me, and I have to lock my knees to keep from backing away.

Being this close, I can see the pattern of blood across his shirt.

His knuckles are split, the brass knuckles now hanging loose in his left hand.

"You see the books?" His voice is soft, controlled.

He's always quiet when there's blood on his hands.

I've noticed that about him.

The quieter he gets, the more dangerous he becomes.

I should lie.

Say I was just reviewing tomorrow's meetings, preparing his schedule, anything except the truth.

But the numbers are right there on the screen in the other office, and Varrick Bane didn't become king of Vancouver’s underworld by being stupid.

"Yes. I saw the discrepancy. It's all there," I say instead.

His eyes—dark brown that looks black in the lamp light—shift from my face to the door behind me, then back. "Show me."

Two words, soft as silk.

I've heard him use that same tone before putting a bullet in someone's skull.

We walk back to his main office, him behind me, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body.

My skin prickles with awareness – not quite fear, not quite something else.

He still has the brass knuckles in his hand, and I can hear the soft clink of metal as he walks.

My fingers shake as I pull up the files, the trail I've spent hours mapping before I finally went to bed.

He moves behind my chair, and suddenly I can't breathe properly.

He's not touching me, but I'm hyperaware of every inch of space between us. The blood on his shirt is fresh enough that I can feel the warmth of it, smell the iron mixing with his expensive cologne – something dark and woody that probably costs more than my father made in a month.

"Someone's been skimming. Seven hundred thousand over eight weeks. They've been clever about it, routing it through?—"

"Show me the trail." His breath stirs my hair, and goosebumps rise along my arms.

I walk him through each transaction, each hidden transfer, each carefully buried theft.

My voice gains strength as I talk about the numbers, the mathematical beauty of uncovering the deception.