Harrison knows. His eyes sweep the room and his body goes rigid. He's been in rooms this way before. On the other side of the chair.
I shove him into it. His hands scrabble at the armrests. Felix produces zip ties from his jacket and secures Harrison's wrists to the metal frame. His ankles. Harrison thrashes. The chair doesn't move.
Felix steps back. Leaves, closing the door behind him. Frankie and Arden stay outside. I hear Frankie murmur low. Silence.
It's me, Sloane, and Harrison.
The bare bulb throws hard shadows. Harrison's face glistens with sweat. His chest heaves. His suit jacket is torn at the shoulder from the stairwell. He looks smaller in this chair than he did at his table, sipping scotch and smiling at the man beside him.
Sloane moves to the wall. Arms folded. Watching.
"You know what this room is," I say.
Harrison's jaw works. "You're making a mistake."
"You had rooms in this building. In your network." I crouch in front of him, forearms on my knees. "The rooms where the girls went after the auction. The rooms where names stopped mattering."
His eyes dart to Sloane. "Tell him to stop."
Sloane says nothing.
"She's not going to help you," I say. "She's here to watch."
"Sloane. I'm your father."
"You sold women," Sloane says from the wall. Her voice doesn't waver. Clinical. "You sold girls. You were going to sell me. You don't get to say that word."
I stand. Roll my sleeves to my elbows.
"You're going to tell me every name," I say. "Every buyer. Every girl. Every transaction that isn't on that screen upstairs."
"I don't—"
My fist catches his jaw. His head snaps to the side. Blood sprays from his lip onto the concrete. The impact reverberates through my knuckles, up my forearm, into my shoulder. I flex once and straighten.
"Every name," I repeat.
He spits blood near my boot. "You think this scares me? I've dealt with men worse than you."
"You've dealt with men you could buy. That's different."
I hit him again. Same side. His head rocks. A tooth loosens. Blood runs down his chin and drips onto his white shirt, blooming red against the fabric. Sloane watches from the wall. Arms folded. Face still. The only movement is the rise and fall of her breathing.
"Names," I say.
He laughs. Wet, bloody. "You married my daughter and you think that gives you the right—"
My hand closes around his throat. I squeeze until his laugh becomes a wheeze. His eyes bulge. His wrists strain against the zip ties, tendons standing out, fingers clawing at nothing. Five seconds. Release. He gasps. Coughs. Spit and blood land on his chest.
"You grabbed her wrist at the hospital," I say. My voice is even. "Sent flowers to our house. Sat in a parking lot and watched us leave. Put people on our street. Photographed our gate. You tracked her schedule."
Each sentence lands in the quiet room. The light hums overhead. The drain in the floor waits.
"You thought time was on your side." I crouch again. Eye level. "It wasn't."
"Phoenix won't protect you," Harrison rasps. "The council—"
"The council is gone. The Society is being rebuilt without you. And you're in a basement."