damaging. Secrets are what got me into this mess.
I watch the skyline pass. We’re traveling east, toward the art district, the shiny buildings turning into slightly less shiny buildings. Chris said Alex was a gambler, and Holden has two popular casinos, but they’re on the west side, where the city’s wealthiest denizens prefer to socialize. Right now we’re about two blocks from my mother’s apartment.
We circle the block three times. I squint against the sun that peeks through the clouds at intermittent intervals and monitor our progress via the rooflines. Terrific parking is something Holden boasts about; Chris isn’t hunting for a spot. He’s making sure he’s not being followed.
We finally park on a side street between two towering office buildings. They reflect each other’s mirrored windows and make me dizzy. Chris turns off the truck but doesn’t move, and after a minute or two he gets out and rounds to the front. I see the top of his head swivel, no doubt wary of pedestrians who might question why he has a bound woman in his back seat, and I assume the coast is clear when he opens the door and grabs the rope around my ankles.
“No kicking,” he warns.
I nod obediently, which does nothing to reassure him, if his frown lines are any indication. With my feet free, he leans in to grab my shoulder and pull me to a sitting position. I smell his soap, see the damp spots that linger in his hair from his shower. He meets my eyes for a second, then sighs, pausing as he reaches into his pocket for the key to the handcuffs. My heart starts pounding. I wondered if I would be uncuffed for this excursion, because if he’s taking me someplace where it wouldn’t be an issue to see a cuffed woman being led around, I’m in even more trouble than I suspected.
Chris freezes when a businessman strolls by, talking loudly on his phone, but I don’t make a sound. A single ounce of tension leaves his shoulders when the man is gone, but it’s not enough to convince him to produce the key. Instead he leans in so his lips are next to my ear, one hand gripping the space between my neck and shoulder. To anyone passing by, it might look romantic, but it’s not. It’s borderline painful. Thus far he’s been careful not to hurt me, so I know this isn’t a threat. He’s worried.
“You have to behave when we’re in there, Reese.”
“I know. I will.”
“You try anything, and you’ll regret it.”
“You can uncuff me,” I say. “I’ll be good.”
He leans back so we’re eye-to-eye. The hand on my neck slides up so he’s cradling my jaw. “It’s not just me who needs this money, Reese.”
“I know,” I say, even as I’m filing away his choice of words. Needs, not wants.
“Johan and Davor are not guys you want to meet.”
“I believe you.”
“They’re not guys I want to meet again.”
“I get it, Chris. Just uncuff me.”
He tightens his grip on my jaw when I jerk away, and my gaze flits back as I try to wrench my face free. I can’t.
“I know where you live,” he says quietly. “I know how to find you. And I know how to find your father.”
A sick feeling claws through my belly. I know my father lied about his connection to Chris, but he’s still my dad. He’s still the only person in my life who didn’t cut off all communication with me after the scandal, even if that communication is closely monitored by the state.
I want to kick Chris. I want to knee him in the crotch and watch him writhe on the street. But I squash those urges and stare at him, letting him see my sincerity. “I just want answers.”
“And then you’ll get the money.”
“I’ll talk to my dad. He has to know where it is.”
I hear his throat bob as he considers this. He’s on the fence about whether or not he believes I genuinely don’t know where the money is, but he obviously has no other options because after a second he nods tersely and frees my hands. I sigh with relief and rub my aching wrists. Chris watches the gesture. I think he feels bad. Despite his threats, he’d rather not be doing this. He needs to do it.
He helps me out of the car. We’re where I expected we would be, about half a block away from the main street of shops and services