Page 42 of Devious Secrets

“To the left,” he says when I reach the bottom and can step in two directions.

Another light flickers on as I take cautious steps over the cement floor. Air whooshes from my lungs.

It’s just a basement. Boxes stashed on shelves line the outer wall. The musty smell from years of storage fills the room.

“Down here.” He guides me with his hand on the small of my back when we reach another hallway.

There’s another locked door that we move through. The hallway narrows, like we’re in a passageway between buildings or something instead of his basement. It’s colder in here. I don’t think we’re in any part of his house anymore.

A chill runs over my skin when we come to another door. Unlike the other typical wooden doors, this one is made of steel. There are three locks on it, and a deadbolt.

“Wait.” I grab on to his wrist when he goes to slide the deadbolt open. “What’s… why are we down here?”

He ignores my question and slides the lock open. The metal scraping against the bolt screeches in the dead silence of the passageway. I have to step back when he pulls the door open toward us. It’s thick, almost like a vault door.

There’s nothing but darkness inside, yet goosebumps cover my arms and the little hairs on the back of my neck stand at attention. Evil happens here, and I don’t need a light to show me that.

“Go on in.” He flips a light switch on the outside of the room, lighting up the room. It’s empty. “Megan. Go. Inside.”

“I don’t want to,” I whisper. Fear keeps my feet planted. If I go in there, I might not come out.

His warm touch to the back of my neck does little to melt the icy terror in control of my thoughts.

“I thought I made it clear already, but let me explain again. I don’t care what you want.” There’s a sharp edge to his tone, like I’ve pushed him far enough.

With small, hesitant steps, I make my way inside the room.

Just like the tower room he had me in that first night, this room is completely round. The walls are cement and painted a dull gray, the floor the same. Except this room has what that one didn’t.

A hook dangles from the ceiling in the center, and below that a drain in the floor.

I jump away from the grate and hurry to a wall, pressing my back to the cold cement.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

Alexander prowls around the room, his pace unhurried until he stops in front of me. He plants his arms on either side of me, caging me against the wall.

He left the door open, but it doesn’t matter. Even if I manage to slip out before he catches me, the front door is too far. I’d never make it—not with the soreness still lingering in my ankle.

“It’s time you answer some questions, Megan.”

“I already told you what I know.” My voice trembles and I hate it. I hate how easily the darkness in his eyes can make me question my strength.

“Not about Dexter.” His brow wrinkles. “I want to know about Marco DeAngelo. Why do you owe him so much money?”

Of course he does. Marco works within an entirely different family. Anything Alexander can use against him would probably come in handy for when they do whatever they do.

“I can handle Marco on my own,” I tell him.

His lips curl inward.

“No. You can’t.” He leans closer. “Megan, do you know what happens in this room?”

“Nothing good,” I answer.

The metal hook, like the ones butchers use to hang a side of beef, dangles just behind him. I may not know the details of Alexander’s business, but I can imagine well enough what they do to people in here.

“Not for the people I leave in here, no.” His touch is light as he pushes my hair back from my face, tucking it behind my ear. “I’m going to ask you again, why do you owe Marco DeAngelo money?”

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