“But the footage was missing. Someone deleted it.” I nearly slam my fist onto the table.
“It could have been corrupted. Or deleted by accident. This is your brother’s winery. Why not ask him?”
“Because he wasn’t there during the ball, he’s never there.”
“Then ask security or whoever is in charge of the place. A caretaker. I can ask if you’d like.”
“No,” I tell him, shaking my head, trying to understand this. Without the footage, I have nothing again.
“I’m sorry,” he says to me, not sounding sorry in the least. “But at least this makes things less complicated.”
“How?”
“The trail ends there. You have nothing to go on. It’s time to ignore your gut.”
“But you said that gut instinct counts for everything.”
“It does. Which is why you follow up on it. But not everything turns out to be true. Sometimes your gut is telling you something because you want it to be true, and I believe that to be the case here.”
“You think I want my very own uncle, who is now my very own boss, to have murdered my father?” I hiss, leaning in across the table.
Jones watches me for a moment, making some sort of calculation in his head. “I do.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “I should have known you weren’t on my side. I should have known not to trust Cyril.”
“I’m not on anyone’s side. I just follow the money. And that’s something we need to speak about right now.”
I finish my drink and slam the glass down, my bangs falling in front of my eyes. “Why the hell should I pay you when you’ve produced nothing? I only have your word, and I’m starting to think that’s worthless.”
In a flash Jones leans across the table and grabs me by the back of the neck, squeezing so hard that my arm falls limp to my side and my head is frozen in place. I can barely breathe; my mouth is open and gasping, and I think he could kill me if he wants to.
I’ve never been so scared.
“I’m not worthless,” Jones says calmly. He reaches across with his other hand and brushes the bangs out of my eyes and stares at me. I know he can see the pain and shock and horror in my face, and he smiles. It’s the kind of smile I’ve seen on Gautier and Pascal. Evil. Soulless. Merciless. “I know my exact worth, and it’s fifty-five thousand euros. You knew my price when you hired me, and I did my job. And if I don’t get the money within twenty-four hours, I’m going to do this to you again, only this time I’m going to move my thumb an inch to the left, and I’m going to cut off your oxygen supply until I’m the last thing you see. Are we clear?”
I can only gasp quietly, aware that he could kill me right here and I don’t think anyone in this bar would care.
Finally he releases his grip and I slump back, falling off the stool and onto the floor. It happens so quickly I don’t even have time to yell. The back of my head hits the dirty carpet, and everything fades in and out until I’m being brought to my feet.
Only it’s not Jones.
It’s the racist guy from earlier, his hands sliding around my waist as I struggle to keep the room from spinning and find my balance. Without his hands I’ll fall over again, my head feels too heavy, but then his hands are roaming everywhere.
“Get off me,” I tell him, trying to push him away. “Let me go.”
“Like hell I’ll let you go, you brown bitch.”
I stare into the guy’s eyes and try to figure out what to do. One minute Jones was here, the next minute I was on the ground. Now I’m with this guy, and I don’t have anyone in my corner. I was afraid for my life before, and I’m afraid for my life now. Out of the frying pan and into the fire.
I look around the bar, hoping to see someone, anyone, that will help me.
I only see blurry faces of people who don’t give a shit.
But then I see someone coming toward us, a familiar form.
He barely comes into focus as he grabs the guy roughly and spins him around.
The guy lets go of me and I stumble, my hands grabbing the edge of the table and managing to hold on and stay on my feet. I try to focus my hazy eyesight enough to see what’s going on.
It’s Blaise, of all fucking people.
And he’s winding up, punching the racist fuck right in the jaw, a swift uppercut that sends the guy flying to the floor beside me.
Then Blaise is jumping on top of him, straddling the guy’s thick stomach and laying punch after punch into his face, blood spraying.
I yell at Blaise to stop, because I know everyone else in this bar is ready to fight him.
But Blaise keeps on hitting, like a wild animal on the loose.
Finally, when I see the big biker dude get up from the booth looking like he’s about to intervene in a bad way, I find the strength to grab my purse and whack Blaise over the shoulder with it to get his attention.
Dumont handbags are heavy.
He looks up at me in shock, hair across his forehead, damp with exertion. His crazed eyes focus on me, and he stills.
“We have to get out of here. Now.” I point at the door.
Blaise blinks at me, looks down at the bloody face of the man he’s just beaten, takes a quick sweep of the room, and gets to his feet.
He grabs my hand, and we start walking quickly toward the exit.
The bartender, though not as tall and built as Blaise, steps out in front of us, blocking the doorway.
“I don’t think so,” the man says.
For a second I fear Blaise is going to get into another fight. His grip on my hand tightens in a squeeze. Then he takes his wallet out and hands the bartender a stack of bills.
“For all the trouble,” he says firmly.
The bartender stares him down for a moment, then glances at the money.
He gives us both a grim nod. “That guy had it coming,” he says and steps aside an inch.
We both squeeze past him into the night and the darkness and the putrid smells of the alley.
Blaise is jogging lightly and pulling me along, and it isn’t until we’re around the corner and onto the main street that I stop, breathless and dizzy, and lean back against the cold stones of a building.
“Are you okay?” he asks me, and he’s standing close to me, too close. I can feel the heat from his body. “Are you cold?”
That’s when he starts taking off his coat, and I realize that I’m shivering through mine. He gently pulls me off the wall and slips the coat around my shoulders, pulling it together over my chest.
I stare at him, breathing hard, trying to put everything together as his gaze focuses on the coat collar, making sure my scarf is tucked in beneath it.
“Wh-what happened?” I’m finally able to say.
He glances at me, swallowing hard. “I saw what that guy was doing to you.”
“What guy?”
His jaw tenses for a moment. “The one who was trying to take advantage of you.”
“You didn’t see what happened before?”
He pauses, then shakes his head. “No.”
I’m having trouble making sense of anything, and I’m not sure if it’s because I’m drunk, because I hit my head, or because a private eye turned thug just threatened to kill me if I didn’t pay him.
“Why were you there?”