Page 67 of Crossfire

“You’re testing my patience,Samantha,” I warned. “Stop with the act.”

“What act? In case you’re forgetting, you’re the one who initiated a conversation with me at the café. Not the other way around. You’re the one who pretended to be a nice guy, trying to be allknight in shining armorwhen, in reality, you’re a psychotic, stabby stalker! And by the way, why bother stalking me if you were just going to kill me again?”

“Stop lying and answer my fucking questions!” I pointed the blade in her direction, noting how hard it appeared for her to swallow.

In a ragged breath, she said, “I’m not lying.Ihave proof that someone lured me to that garage on my phone.” She nodded her chin toward her bedroom, and when she made her next accusation, her voice rose slowly in volume and determination. “You’re the one that’s the liar. The whole time we were having coffee together, you never told me you were in that garage,Bob,” she accused.

“I was in the garage, but I wasn’t the one who lured you there.”

“So, you’re what, his hired hand?”

“I didn’t attack you.”

“Says the man who just had a knife to my throat,” she balked. “In case you forgot, you just admitted to being there.”

“For official purposes.”

“Official.” She leered at me. “Doesn’t get more official than trying to kill me.”

“That’s what happens when you get in bed with violent arms dealers.”

“Arms dealers?” Her head snapped back like it had been hit by a rubber band. “What in the hell are you talking about?”

I stilled, twirling the handle of my blade.Just do it, Grayson. Get it over with.

Her eyebrows attacked her forehead. “You think I associate with arms dealers?”

“The CIA wouldn’t have sent me to kill you if you didn’t.”

“The CIA?”

Ivy’s mouth hung open, suspended in supposed disbelief as she stared at me like I was talking a different language. After a few seconds, she looked down, seemingly lost in thought before lifting her face again.

“You’re mentally unstable,” she whispered to herself. “I must have treated you in the emergency room one time or something. Maybe you were put on a psych hold. You must have…started stalking me, hacked into my phone or something.” She glanced up again and met my gaze. “You need professional help, Grayson. If that’s even your real name.”

I clenched my jaw; I’d had enough of this.

I brought the blade to her throat again, getting her attention as I growled, “I assure you, sweetheart, I’m not mentally unstable. If I was, you would be dead by now.”

Ivy’s eyes grew wide as she swallowed.

“I can get you help,” Ivy said. “I know a good psychiatrist at the hos?—”

“Ivy, stop trying to play with me,” I interrupted with restrained anger. “If I were crazy, would I be able to articulate my thoughts clearly, engage in meaningful conversation, demonstrate awareness of my situation, and respond appropriately to questions or situations?”

“I…”

“Or does that seem more like someone with rational thinking?”

She searched my face again, looking for hope that I was insane, I think. Because insane, she knew what to do with.

An assassin? She did not.

“You expect me to believe you work for the CIA? Do you realize how crazy that sounds?” she stuttered.

“Crazier than a bomb taking out that parking garage you were in?” I pushed.

I could see the change in her face, morphing with a shocking realization that I wasn’t just some random stalker/killer. The bomb changed everything, told her something bigger was, in fact, at play.

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