“Finish your drink,” he murmured. “Then, you’re going to tell me everything that happened, every detail you can remember about the people who took you.”
Hellfire.
My mind raced as I contemplated how much to tell him about my unlikely kidnappers. I hadn’t forgotten what he’d said on the phone to Detective Hightower.
I’m going to hunt these fuckers down and make them regret they ever touched a hair on her fucking head. And when I do, they’d better pray I’m in a more forgiving mood.
Would he truly track down three grandmothers and exact vengeance for their — admittedly misguided — attempt at protecting me? I didn’t think so. Then again, I didn’t have him kissing me on my BINGO card for the evening, either. If there was even the slightest chance he planned to go after Aunt Colette’s friends… I wasn’t going to be the one who enabled it. Better to talk to them on my own, try to reason with them in the light of day. Preferably somewhere with plenty of witnesses, so they couldn’t repeat that whole witchy-roofie-powder maneuver.
I took slow sips of my whiskey, making small appreciative hums in the back of my throat with each swallow. A languorous glow began to spread through me, warming me from the inside out, chasing away the residual chill from the dank basement. I fought off a face-splitting yawn. The urge to curl up into a ball in the corner of Graham’s ultra-comfy couch was growing stronger by the minute.
“Gwendolyn.”
I looked over at the man sitting beside me. His whiskey was barely touched. The glass looked fragile in his large hand, the amber inside it catching the firelight as he slowly swirled it around, his strong wrist making absentminded rotations. He watched the small vortex spinning for a moment before his eyes lifted to pierce mine. They were the same shade of green as the painting on the wall behind him.
“Tell me what happened tonight,” he said softly. But it was a deceptive softness. There was steel beneath it. This was no request; it was a command. I’d been lulled into a false sense of security by his quiet reprieve, I realized. I’d fallen so easily into the trap he laid for me, relaxed by the whiskey he provided, soothed by the soft leather and low lighting and crackling fire.
Damn, he was good.
“Gwendolyn,” he prompted a second time.
I tightened my grip on the glass in my hand. It was almost empty. “I don’t know what you want me to tell you, Graham.”
“The truth, for starters.”
“There’s not much to say. It all happened so fast, and I was unconscious for most of it.”
“Just start at the beginning.”
“Okay.” I blew out a sharp breath. “I was walking to meet Flo at The Witches Brew—”
“Leaving from where? Work?”
I nodded.
“So, you left The Gallows. What time was this?”
“Maybe around eight? Eight-fifteen? I stayed late, doing inventory.”
“Alone?”
I nodded again. “My barista left at six, when we closed. After I locked up, I cut straight across town.”
“Was anyone following you?”
“Not that I was aware of. But I can’t really say for sure. There were a zillion people out. You know how it is on Friday nights. The sidewalks were mobbed with ghost tours and tourists and couples and costumed street performers…”
“Mmm.”
“So…” I heaved a sigh. “I took a shortcut.”
Graham made an unhappy noise. It was almost a growl.
I glanced at him. “What?”
“Your shortcut. You mean a dimly lit alley with no security cameras.”
“I’ll have you know, I’ve taken that shortcut a hundred times.”