70. Mandy
MANDY
Well, so far, everything is going according to plan—which is probably the most alarming thing that's happened all day.
The room Ashford leads me to is exactly what I expected: expensive, sterile, and designed to intimidate. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook manicured grounds. Leather furniture that costs more than most people's cars. Art on the walls that screams I have money and you don't.
Ashford stands near the window, hands in his pockets, studying me like I'm a particularly interesting specimen he's considering adding to his collection. I wonder what he sees. I know it’s not the six inches of sharpened steel holding my hair in place, waiting to piece his black heart.
I hate him. Not the hot, immediate hatred I felt for Turner and the men like him—the ones who bought and sold women like livestock. This is colder. It’s the hatred you reserve for men who think they're untouchable because they've never been touched.
All I need is for him to get close enough and this will be done and I can go home to Hendricks. He’s too far away, all the way across the room.
"You’re not what I expected,” he says finally.
I lean against the arm of the couch, deliberately casual. “Disappointed?”
“Intrigued.”
“That’s sweet.” I smile. “Wait till you get to know me.”
His mouth twitches. A smile or in distaste? Tough call. “You caused quite a bit of trouble for Cole Turner.”
Not an accusation—a fishing expedition. Huh. I tilt my head. “Have I?”
“You were inside his operation.”
I start to move, pretending to look at the random shit he has around the room. “So were a lot of people.”
“Most of them didn’t systematically dismantle it afterward.”
Fair. “I’ve always been an overachiever.”
His stare burns a hole in the side of my head. “I want to know what you learned.”
Interesting. Not what did you take? Not where is it? He doesn’t know about the notebook, or he doesn’t care. Does he know the memory card sitting in Hendricks's vault exists? Are we actually up on him?
Two points for the home team. Except what does he think I have that belongs to him?
Cautious, I study him. “You paid Hendricks a shit ton of money because you’re curious?”
He shakes his head. “I paid Hendricks because you became a liability.”
“That hurts.” I put a hand to my chest. “I was hoping it was my personality.”
“You got too close to Turner.”
“And?”
“And people who get that close tend to see things they shouldn’t.” He’s watching me too carefully, looking for the flinch, the recognition. Anything that tells him he’s hit something.
So I give him nothing. I hop up on the desk, five feet from him, swinging my legs. “Sounds like you should be having this conversation with Turner.”
His expression hardens. “Turner disappeared, as I’m sure you’re aware.”
I shrug. “Maybe he needed some alone time.”
Ashford steps closer. “Did you take him out?”
That’s right. Come to Mommy. I let my smile grow slowly. “If I took him out, I’d wear his pinky around my neck as a trophy for everyone to see.”
He stops in his tracks, staring at me like he’s trying to figure out if I mean it. “Did he talk to you?”
“Cole didn’t have much tolerance for pain,” I reply vaguely. Let him think I tortured every last confession out of Turner. “He liked to talk, didn’t he?”
He edges closer. “About me?”
Another three feet and I’ll have him. I bat my eyelashes like I’m an airhead. Men like him always believe women are stupid. “Should he have?”
Ashford’s expression goes still. “What did he tell you?”
Here's the thing about fishing expeditions—you can throw the hook right back. I tilt my head, all innocent curiosity. “You mean, like, about Clara Whitlock?”
I don't have anything. I'm holding an empty hand and betting he can't tell I’m bluffing.
It works better than I expect. Something flickers behind his eyes—there and gone, but real. His jaw shifts, just barely, like he's recalculating everything he thought he knew about this conversation.
“Who?” he says, too fast, too smooth—the kind of who a man says when he's buying himself a second to think.
I shrug like it doesn't matter, like I'm just tossing out names to see what sticks. “Some girl he was interested in.”
He stares at me like he’s trying to see into my brain. “What did Turner say about her?”
He didn't correct me. He didn't act confused. He didn't look blank at her name. He just wants to know what I know.
I’d bet a year’s supply of donuts that he knows who she is and what’s going on.
My pulse kicks up, sharp and bright. This is more than I walked in with. It’s a thread, and if I pull it now, I might unravel the whole fucking thing.
Which presents a problem. The plan is to kill Ashford, but now I need to keep him talking.
I ease back, giving him room. “Cole said he had big plans for Clara.”
Ashford goes very still. “He told you that?”
Bingo. I give him a careless shrug. “Maybe.”
His eyes sharpen. “What else did he tell you?”
Less than you just did. Ashford knows about Clara and what Turner was going to do with her—I just know it. He’s close enough to whatever she’s involved in to be worried that I know too much.
Which means killing him right now would be spectacularly inconvenient.
The asshole just bought himself five more minutes.
I sigh. “You really should’ve asked all these questions before you paid Hendricks. You’ve spent a shit ton of money and you’re still scared of me.”
The mask slips, only for a second, but I see it.
“I see you’re right,” he says tightly. “This was a waste of money since Turner is just another one of your victims.”
I lean forward, letting the crazy fill my eyes. “His screams were delicious.”
Shuddering, Ashford turns and walks to the door. “Wait here.”
I snort. “Sure. Take your time.”
He pauses with his hand on the knob. “Don’t make the mistake of thinking you’re in control, Miss Reed.”
I give him my sweetest smile. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
He leaves, and the door locks audibly behind him.
I stay where I am for exactly two seconds, running the new variable through my head. He knows about Clara. He didn't explain how or why, and I don't have time to figure it out standing in his very expensive living room.
I reach up and touch the pin in my hair to confirm it's still there. Still an option. Just not the best one anymore.
Jake’s voice sounds in my head. “Clear.”
“Not exactly.” I wince. Hendricks is going to kill me.
Sure enough, he comes on immediately. “What’s going on?”
I keep my eyes on the door. “Ashford knows about Clara. I had to adjust the plan.”
There’s silence on the comms.
“He knows something,” I explain. “I need him alive long enough to find out what.”
Hendricks curses in my ear.
“Relax,” I tell him. “I said adjusted, not abandoned.”
Footsteps sound down the hall, like a troop marching—coming toward me.
So much for the five minutes. I pull the pin from my hair. “Hold that thought,” I say as the doorknob turns.