Sting

She absorbed that, then said, “I don’t know anything about him, or his reputation, or a setup. You’re just being paranoid.”

“You’re goddamn right I am.” He stated that in a low, tight voice that left the words vibrating between them. “Now. For the last time. Who sent you there tonight?”

Her gaze dropped to his shirt pocket where he’d stashed the slip of paper with the telephone number on it, then she turned her head away from him. “Nobod

y. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You’re lying through your teeth. But I’m not going to waste any more time trying to get the truth out of you here.” He took her elbow again and propelled her toward the car.

She seemed relieved to be off the hook, at least for the present, and went more or less docilely. But when they reached the car and he pulled her hands together, she resisted.

“Please don’t. It hurts.”

“That’s your fault. Stop pulling against it.” He turned her back to him, but, before clipping on the cuff, he said, “But just to show you that I can be a nice guy…” He padded her wrists by wrapping them with another bandana before fastening the restraint.

She didn’t thank him or acknowledge the gesture. Instead she jerked herself away from his touch as he handed her into the backseat. She sat staring straight ahead while he removed her sandals and tied her ankles with the original bandana.

That done, he opened the trunk and worked a bottle of drinking water out of a pack. He returned to the open door of the backseat, uncapped the water bottle, and extended it toward her mouth. “It’s not cold, but it’s wet.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’ll dehydrate.”

“The sooner I die, the sooner you can collect your money.”

“That’s just it. Dying of thirst takes too long.”

He nudged her lips with the rim of the bottle and when she still refused to drink, he said, “It’s a painful way to check out, but suit yourself.” He tilted the bottle to his mouth and drained it, then used the back of his hand to wipe a dribble off his chin. He caught her looking at his scar. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“I fell off my bike when I was a kid.”

The drop-dead look she gave him said she knew he was lying. The scar was too recent to have been caused by a childhood mishap.

“Does your head hurt?” he asked.

“No.”

He slid two fingers through her hair at the side of her head and explored her scalp. When he located a small bump, she winced. “Why lie about it? I have some Advil.”

“No thank you.”

“Look, I told you that torture wasn’t part of this gig. So take the damn—”

“No. Thank. You.”

“Fine.”

He moved to the trunk, tossed the empty water bottle into it, closed it, then returned to her. “Lie down.”

“I’ll sit.”

“You’ll be more comfortable lying down than sitting up with your hands behind you.”

She turned her head aside, clearly spurning his suggestion.

“I’m not giving you a choice this time, Jordie. Either lie down, or I’ll tie your feet to the door handle and make it impossible for you to sit up.”