Peering down at the screen, I begin to watch the live video feed that Greta must’ve accidently activated from my iPad.

Suddenly, I don’t feel the cold anymore, or understand that I’m standing outside in thirty-degree weather. I forget that I’m over a thousand miles away from my house and that I have an important, time-constrained interrogation to do on the other side of those tall steel walls. I don’t care about anything in this moment except what I’m seeing.

She must’ve remembered…she must’ve remembered something.

With my heart in my throat, I watch the tiny screen in the palm of my hand, focusing so hard that I don’t recall blinking. I think I’ve stopped breathing.

Cassia dances around in the center of the room, singing the song word for word and right on key. If I didn’t know better I’d think she was Connie Francis.

I swallow hard and watch the screen until my eyes hurt.

Chapter Twelve

Cassia


I dance around Greta, moving my hips in time with the music, clapping my hands while belting out the lyrics as if I had written them myself. It all feels so natural, so…familiar, but I’m having too much fun with Greta to worry about any of that right now.

And Greta isn’t so bad at dancing 50’s-style herself, easily keeping up with me. We start clapping together along with the music at the right times and it’s like we’re sharing a small stage…in a classy bar tucked away in a big city that serves only the finest of wines…and I’m dressed in a skin-tight black dress that hugs my body down to my calves…with tall high-heeled black shoes…perfume…cigars…the sound of ice in the bottom of whiskey glasses, the tall mirrors lining the walls on either side of me, candles burning in deep, bubble-shaped amber candle holders in the center of every table in the audience, the sleek black piano on the stage to my left…the woman with short jet-black hair on the stage beside me to my right…

The memory blinks out of my mind as Greta’s voice shouts over the music. “Your voice is beautiful, Cassia!” she says as the song goes into its last few notes.

I’m giddy. Absolutely giddy. So much so that I can’t stop smiling and my face feels like it’s stiffened permanently in the same beaming position.

When the song ends, still high on the moment, I point at the device on the step and say, “Duffy. Mercy. Look that one up!”

And Greta does just that, and after I sing that one as if I’d done it a hundred times, she finds every other song I ask her to find, until eventually we go right back to Fallin’ by Connie Francis because it’s my favorite. I dance and sing until my throat is dry and I’m too out of breath to carry on another note.

I fall against my large bed with my arms out at my sides as if I were flying, and I look up at the ceiling still with a smile on my face as I try to catch my breath. My heart is beating so fast, I can feel it pumping through every vein right down into the tips of my fingers and toes.

Almost nothing in the world could take this moment away from me.

But that memory…I can’t get it out of my head. And the more I think about it, the more I begin to see, and the darker the light over my eyes becomes. Instinctively, I reach up and wipe the corners of them as tears burn their way to the surface.

“Cassia?” Greta speaks softly beside me. “Is something wrong?”

My head falls to the side and I force a smile, wiping at my face again at the tears that managed to escape.

“No, Greta, I’m fine. Everything’s fine.” I sniffle and smile a little warmer at her.

I wonder if she believes me, or if she can see right through the pain I now harbor.


Fredrik


“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Niklas says walking up. “You stopped an interrogation to use your cell phone?” He shakes his head, cigarette smoke mixed with cold breath streaming in large puffs from his lips. The hot ember of the cigarette burns between his fingers down at his side. “Unless it was Victor on the phone.”

Running my finger over the screen, I shut down the live video feed and then turn the phone to vibrate before dropping it back into my pants pocket.

I shake my head. “No, it wasn’t Victor—it was unexpected.” What a worthless excuse. I know Niklas is right. And I agree with him.

He just stares at me for an uncomfortable moment and then jerks his head back. “Shouldn’t we get back to the mouthy bitch in the chair?”

“Yeah,” I say nodding and follow him inside.

“Dorian,” Niklas calls out as we approach, “you’re up! It’s cold as shit out there.” His voice echoes through the empty warehouse.

Niklas, Dorian and Izabel earlier agreed to take turns watching the building outside, depending on how long this interrogation might take.

Dorian shrugs on his black bomber jacket and zips it up to his throat. He walks past me and says, “I hope you got everything squared away,” and pats me on the shoulder, but his concern is laced with typical Dorian mockery.

Then he looks at Niklas. “I’d rather be outside on watch, anyway.” He glances at Kelly secured to the chair with a look of hatred and defiance twisting her already unsightly features. “Kind of tired of that ugly bitch fucking me with her eyes. Damn, I feel like I need a goddamn shower.” He shudders and then the shadows of the building swallow him up as he passes underneath a low section of ceiling and heads outside.

Wasting no more time, I walk straight over to Kelly Bennings, intent on getting this over with as soon as possible. Before, I wanted to stay away from Cassia, but now things have changed. They’ve changed significantly.

I just hope I can function during this interrogation, because already I feel off balance and profoundly distracted.

“I don’t know what the fuck you people are doing,” Kelly snaps as I step up closer, “but this isn’t supposed to be happening!” She tightens her arms and legs against the ropes securing her to the chair and jerks her body roughly against the metal. The legs bounce against the cement floor. Her disheveled dishwater-brown hair falls down around her bony jaw structure and rests on her shoulders.

I pull up an extra chair and set it in front of her.

“You’re here to give me information,” I say calmly as I take a seat, crossing one leg over the other. “As long as you cooperate, and as long as you tell the truth, no one will hurt you.”

For a brief moment she looks confused, her big bug-eyes bouncing around at the three of us, but when her eyes fall on me again, she smiles, of all things.

I find that very interesting. She’s doesn’t fear us.

“What the hell do you want to know?” she asks with a growing smirk stretching her thin, unpainted lips.

“The current location of your boyfriend, Paul Fortright,” I say.

Her face falls. “Why? What do you want with him?”

“That doesn’t matter,” I say. “And you’re not the one asking the questions.”

“B-But I-I don’t…want you to hurt him,” she stutters, her eyes constantly darting between me, Niklas and Izabel. “Just tell me what this is about.”

I don’t have time for this.

I jump up from my chair and pull Izabel’s knife from the sheath around her thigh, and in a flash, bury the blade into the top of Kelly’s hand. Her blood-curdling screams fill the warehouse, traveling from wall to ceiling like an injured banshee.

“Fredrik!” Niklas calls out. “What the fuck?!”

I feel Izabel’s widened eyes on me, but she hasn’t worked up yet what to say.

I sit back down in the chair as casually as I had before, and this time I lean forward with my legs spread, draping my hands between them.

“Where is Paul Fortright?” I cock my head to one side.

Tears stream down Kelly’s reddened cheeks, but they’re not so much tears of pain as they are of anger.

If she could kill me right now, she’d do it with a smile on her face.

“He’s at his fuckin’ friend’s house!” she spats irately. “Watching goddamn pay-per-view wrestling!”

I glance at Izabel momentarily and she’s looking back at me with shock and confusion in her bright green eyes.

Niklas says nothing else, though I can tell by the vibe he’s putting off that it’s only a matter of time.

“And where is your daughter?” I ask Kelly.

“My daughter?” A glimmer of true fear crosses her face. “W-W-Why do you want to know about my daughter?”

“No one will harm your daughter,” I assure her. “But if you answer one more question with a question of your own, I’ll put Izabel’s other knife”—I glance down at the undamaged hand—“in your other hand.”

“She’s with him! But please don’t hurt her! Please! This isn’t supposed to be happening!” She begins to cry. “WHY IS THIS HAPPENING?!”

I stand from the chair again and Izabel intuitively reaches for the knife sheathed to her other thigh, collapsing her hand around the hilt.

“What the fuck are you doing, Gustavsson?” Niklas asks. “Have you lost your damn mind?”

“Yeah, seriously, Fredrik,” Izabel says, still with her hand on her knife, afraid I might try to take it from her.

“Come with me,” I say calmly and don’t give them the opportunity to ask what for as I head back toward the side door that leads outside.

“FUCKING BASTARD!” Kelly screams from behind.

We step out into the cold air and join Dorian who stands leaning his back against the steel wall of the building. He pushes himself from it and stands upright when he sees us, instantly on alert.

“What’s going on?” Dorian asks.