Page 63 of Widow's Walk
My lungs are burning, my muscles are all constricting, and my head pounds with rage. “Daram divoone misham…che ghalati kardam?”I’m fucking losing it…what the fuck did I do, I mutter, the words muddled.
“Are you done?” Dane says dryly. My head snaps in his direction, glaring at him like I’m locked in on my prey as he sits casually on the windowsill.
“Easy, Blackwell,” Harlan chimes in, going for a soothing voice.
“Don’t,” I snap between gnashing teeth.
He waits a long moment before speaking again. “We’ll find her. We did once, and we’ll do it again.”
Now my eyes snap to lock on Harlan. “She tried to kill me!”
He chuckles and shakes his head. I’m seeing red, a hair from snapping. “She was fucking with you. If she wanted you dead, she would have done it.”
“What the fuck do you mean?” I roar, advancing on him. “She tried to fucking burn me alive!”
“But she didn’t,” he argues. I walk away, shaking my head at his nonsense. “Sinclair is more cognizant of our world and how it works than you think. Thanany oneof us thinks. She knew that there was a second team and that they would come in just in time to get you out of there.”
I’m staring at the ground, still panting with fury. I turn my head slightly to see him. “You don’t know that.”
He shoves his hands in his pockets. “Idoknow that. And you do too. You’re just too wrapped up in your own emotional turmoil to think straight. You’re upset you didn’t get her, I get it. We were so close to bringing her home. She outsmarted us.” I find it difficult to look at Harlan when he’s wearing a smirk and trying to hide it.
“I don’t see anything funny about this,” I chop up each word, seething.
“I’m sorry,” he says, his smirk growing and still trying to conceal it. “I know this isn’t funny, but—” He shakes his head more.
“It was brilliant,” Dane pipes in. He stands up, posture straight. “Harlan’s right. If she wanted to kill you, she would have done it. Probably before she even left. But she didn’t.”
“She’s fucking with you. You know how Sinclair loves games,” Harlan says.
My mind begins going through everything I have catalogued about Sinclair and the way her mind works. Everything she does is unpredictable. Yet calculated.
Then it hits me. My head pops up. “The chef.”
Chapter twenty-seven
Sinclair
My head pounds and my ears ring as I try to regain consciousness.
The smell of blood and urine invades my senses, slapping me awake and burning my throat. Opening my eyes is like lifting concrete, but I somehow manage. Groaning, every muscle in my body screams in agony as I try to sit up. The hard ground is cool beneath my palms.
“Fuck,” I hiss through a dry throat and wince, squeezing my eyes shut. My hands shoot up to cradle my skull and apply pressure. I rub at my temples to desperately try to allay the pain.
I force my eyes open again. I need to bear my surroundings as I focus on the blurry fragments. A single light bulb flickering sways above my head. Even though it’s dull, it still hurts to look at.
Nausea washes over me, and I rest my eyes to breathe through it until it passes. The foul smells do not help any.
Okay, focus.
One more deep breath.
I slowly open my eyes for the final time and peruse the rest of the small room. Cement walls, a bucket, one door with no handle, and nothing else.
Oh, no. No, no, no, no, no.
How?
My memories are jumbled, and I cannot remember how I got here, but I know wherehereis.
