Chapter 1 #2
Against my better judgment, I decide there is no harm in inspecting his claim. His hands are bound behind him, so I walk behind him and look down.
They’re soft, pale, with short, clean fingernails. There are small scars on his fingers, the kind you could get from years of working with knives and hot ovens. Burn marks that could come from baking.
Not the hands of a career criminal.
“Please,” he continues, and there’s something in his voice that makes my chest tighten again.
“I don’t know what Declan has done, but it has nothing to do with me.
I just want to go home. I have orders to fill tomorrow.
Mrs. Murphy is expecting her anniversary cake, and if I don’t show up, she’ll be so disappointed. I’ve been working on it for weeks.”
Anniversary cake. Mrs. Murphy. Surely those are details that no one would think to invent under this kind of pressure.
I feel something cold settling in my stomach. Something that might be the first stirrings of true doubt.
But I push it aside. I’m a professional. I don’t make mistakes. The man in my chair is Declan O’Shea, and Declan O’Shea stole something very valuable from some very dangerous people. The fact that he’s prettier than expected and has an active imagination doesn’t change the facts.
I walk back to the table and set down the knife, selecting something larger. A cleaver, well-maintained and sharp enough to cut through bone. I want him to see it, want him to understand the gravity of his situation.
When I turn back, he’s staring at the cleaver with undisguised horror. His whole body is shaking now, and he looks like he might be sick.
“I’m going to ask you some questions,” I say, my voice calm and professional. “The quality of your answers will determine how unpleasant this becomes. Do you understand?”
“I understand,” he whispers. “But I don’t know what you want to know. I really don’t.”
I walk over to the wall where I keep my sound system.
Nothing soothes the soul like a little Puccini while you work.
I select La Bohème and let the opening notes fill the studio.
There’s something about opera that really unnerves people.
Maybe it’s all those movies where the villain plays classical music while doing terrible things.
Or maybe it’s just that opera is inherently dramatic, and drama amplifies fear.
The man in the chair makes a small sound of distress as the music begins. His breathing becomes more rapid, more shallow. Good. Fear makes them more cooperative.
“Where is it?” I ask, walking slowly around his chair like a shark circling prey.
“Where is what? I don’t know what you’re talking about.” His voice breaks on the last word.
“The tiara. The one you took from the shipment three days ago.”
He looks genuinely confused. “Tiara? Like a crown? I don’t... I don’t know anything about any tiara. I was in my bakery three days ago. I was making scones.”
Scones. Jesus Christ, he even talks like a baker.
I stop in front of him and lean down so we’re eye to eye.
“You intercepted a shipment of stolen French Crown jewels three nights ago. Among the pieces was a sapphire tiara worth twelve million euros. The buyer is very unhappy about the delay, and my employer is very unhappy about the theft. So I’ll ask you again. Where is the tiara?”
“I swear to you, I don’t know anything about any tiara.
” Tears are starting to form in his eyes, and I feel that strange tightness in my chest again.
“I’ve never stolen anything in my life. The most valuable thing in my flat is my stand mixer, and that’s only because it was a gift from my aunt. Please, you have to believe me.”
Stand mixer. Aunt. The details keep coming, each one more mundane and believable than the last.
But I push down the doubt. This is what I do. I break people. I extract information. And sometimes that means dealing with very convincing liars.
I straighten up and walk over to the table where I keep my more specialized tools. Pliers, wire cutters, a small blowtorch that I use for more delicate work. I make sure he can see everything, make sure he understands what’s at stake.
“You know,” I say conversationally, selecting a pair of needle-nose pliers, “in my experience, everyone breaks eventually. Some people just take longer than others. Some people need more encouragement.”
I can hear him crying now, soft hiccupping sobs that should sound pathetic but somehow just make that tightness in my chest worse.
“Please,” he whispers. “I can’t tell you where something is if I don’t know where it is. I can’t tell you about crimes I didn’t commit. If you hurt me, it won’t change the fact that I don’t have the information you want.”
It’s the same words I’ve heard a thousand times. Everyone says it. Everyone tries it. It should be like water off a duck’s back to me. It shouldn’t even register. Just background noise.
But something in his earnest expression is giving me pause. I stare into desperate, too-pretty eyes for a long moment. Then I rouse myself.
No. I don’t make mistakes. I can’t afford to make mistakes.
I walk back to him, pliers in hand. “We’ll see about that.”
But as I reach for him, he looks up at me with those incredible hazel eyes, and I see something there, beyond the desperation, that makes me freeze. Not guilt. Not deception. Just pure, genuine terror.
“I’m really no good with pain,” he says, his voice small and broken. “Or blood. I faint at the sight of blood. I know that probably makes me seem like a coward, but I can’t help it. And germs, I’m terrible with germs. I wash my hands about fifty times a day because of the bakery.”
He trails off, seeming to realize how ridiculous he sounds.
It’s a convincing act. Details like that don’t seem like a lie. No criminal hardman would admit to fainting at the sight of blood while being interrogated. Not in a world where reputation is everything.
“Declan is horrible,” he says, the words tumbling out like he can’t stop them.
“He’s been horrible our whole lives. He used to lock me in closets when we were children, tell me monsters were going to eat me.
He stole money from our grandmother’s purse and blamed it on me.
He’s selfish and cruel and I’m not surprised he’s done something to get you angry. But I’m not him. I’m nothing like him.”
The pain in his voice seems so real. Raw. A fantastic imitation of genuine hurt, the kind that comes from a lifetime of being overshadowed by someone you love but can’t stand.
“If you let me go,” he continues, “I promise I’ll never tell anyone what happened here.
I’ll go back to my bakery and my quiet life and you’ll never see me again.
I’ll even... I’ll even make you things. Cakes, pastries, whatever you want.
I make the most amazing lemon drizzle cake you’ve ever tasted.
I could bring you one every week if you want. Just please, please don’t hurt me.”
Lemon drizzle cake. He’s offering to bake for the man who’s about to torture him.
That’s definitely something new. Just when I thought I’d reached a stage in my career where it seemed like I’d seen it all.
Oh well. At least torturing Declan O’Shea is not going to be dull.
I walk to the corner of the studio where I keep a box of disposable gloves. He watches me with growing panic as I pull on a pair, snapping them into place with practiced efficiency.
I walk back toward him, and he closes his eyes, bracing himself for whatever I’m about to do. His whole body is trembling, and I can hear him whispering what might be a prayer under his breath.
I stop directly in front of him and raise the pliers.
And then he opens his eyes, looks up at me with all that terror and dread, and promptly faints dead away.
His head lolls forward, his body going completely limp in the restraints. The only sound in the studio is Puccini and my own heartbeat thundering in my ears.
That’s a real, genuine faint, not a fake one. I can tell the difference.
I stand there for a long moment, staring at his unconscious form, pliers still raised like some kind of terrible conductor’s baton.
Finally, I lower my hand and speak the first honest words I’ve said in years.
“Well,” I say to the empty studio. “That’s unexpected.”