“We?”
“Me and Tinkerbell.”
He gives me a skeptical look.
“I’m not crazy.” I sigh again, louder this time. “There was a girl. Tiny, cute as a button, cursed like a sailor. She got me out through a storm door, we ran like hell, and then she gave me the burner phone and told me to call for help.”
“And where is…” His teeth saw back and forth, jaw clenched. “Tinkerbellnow?”
I shrug. “Beats me. She took off a few minutes before I called you.”
His hand curls into a fist and begins to pound against the countertop in rhythmic strikes. “And you’d never seen her before?”
“No.”
“She didn’t tell you who she was?”
“No. And I don’t thinkTinkerbellis her given name, if that’s what you’re asking.” I roll my eyes. “I just didn’t know what else to call her.”
He’s quiet for a moment. “Start at the beginning. Tell me all of it.”
“Thebeginningbeginning? Like, how far back are we talking? The gallery opening? The date? Or the part when I woke up in a mildewy basement, was held for ransom, and got punched in the eye socket twice?” My head tilts. “You know, I look kinda like Ronda Rousey after a cage fight. Or a raccoon.” I shrug lightly. “All in all, I think it’s a good look on me. Dark shadows are reallyinthis spring, you know?”
His face turns to stone when I say that.
“Sorry,” I murmur. “Too soon?”
His jaw ticks. “I called you. Your voice was slurring, you were drunk. I knew something was off, but I didn’t know where you were. Why don’t you start with whatever happened when we got disconnected.”
It’s not a suggestion.
“I wasn’t drunk. I was drugged.” My voice is barely audible.
He goes still. “What was that?”
“He slipped something in my drink. I don’t…” I swallow. “I don’t remember anything from the time he grabbed my phone until I woke up in that basement.”
“Did he—” His words break off abruptly and I know he’s fighting for control. His fist picks up pace as it smacks against the countertop.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
I flinch with each hit.
“Did—” He starts again. “Did the motherfuckertouchyou?”
I know he’s not talking about the bruises around my eyes. The worry in his voice, buried not so deep beneath the anger, makes me reach across the counter and lay my hand over his clenched fist. My fingers look tiny against the broad width of his grip. The pounding stops when our eyes meet.
“No.” I hold his stare. “He didn’t touch me. Not like that.”
Some of the tension slips out of him and he nods sharply for me to continue.
“When I came to, I was in a basement. There was nothing around — just a few broken bar stools, some dusty boxes. Padraic and Cormack were there.” I know I should move my hand away, but I can’t seem to let go. “They talked about a man named Mac.”
The name means nothing to me, but it clearly means something to Nate judging by the way he goes still.
“You’re sure they used that name?” he asks, eyes active.
I nod.