Page 61 of The Truths that Deceive

I struggle to stand, the pain in my head throbbing with each step I take to reach a bottle of water. The label’s been pulled off, so it’s some brand I’d possibly recognize. Either that or they’re paranoid. Maybe a bit of both.

I twist off the plastic top, take a deep swig, and go to Calista. She looks up at me and it squeezes my chest tight.

She looks impossibly young. Talk about feeling every inch the depraved and dirty old man I am for laying a finger on her. I hold out the water. “Here.”

“I don’t think?—”

“They’re not going to drug it. They want us awake and clear to answer questions.”

Calista’s silent for a long minute, then she takes the bottle I hold out to her. She takes a delicate sip. “How do you know?”

“Because I’m experienced.”

“Because you’re old?”

A half smile breaks free.

“That, and if they were going to use a truth serum or some other kind of torture—which doesn’t work—they would.”

I hope. Most people haven’t gotten the memo about torture not working on one who doesn’t want to talk.

Some torture works, a little, or when you want to work some aggression off, but… I sweep a glance over her. Apart from the fear, she looks fine.

Although looks can be deceiving. “You okay?”

She hands back the bottle, nodding, but our fingers brush and her fingers are like ice.

Strange when heat seared me at her touch earlier.

Or maybe that wasn’t body heat transference. Maybe it was just the general reaction I have to her. Fuck.

It’s not that I care, apart from having her in one piece to deliver so I can collect. I don’t give a shit that I’m rich. Money’s always good.

Scratch that. Money and secrets are always good. And she has secrets.

Maybe secrets I need.

Especially if they’re about the sick fucks who wanted to do vile things to my daughter.

“You nod but…” I shrug.

She shakes her head and rubs her arms. “I said I’m okay.”

“Are you?” I grab her chin and stare into her eyes. They’re glassy, just a little though. The storm’s receded, and right now, they’re just gray. Apart from those two spots of color, she’s pale.

She smacks my hand away.

“I’m not a child, Smith,” Calista mutters. “This is just a little out of my wheelhouse, okay?”

“I’m aware. You’re a desk jockey, not field.” I rake my gaze over her, lingering on the soft invitation of her pretty mouth. “Did they say anything to you?”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t really want to deal with hysterics.”

Her eyes snap fire and she rises, fingers sinking into my T-shirt as she grabs it, and I let her pull me in close. “Hysterics.”

“You. Female. Inexperienced. Young.” Somehow, I keep the smile at bay. “Hysterics.”

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