Page 44 of Devious Secrets

“What are you talking about?”

“Dexter Thompson was murdered. And whoever sent you to get that drive is most likely behind it.”

I shake my head. “I don’t want to know. I’m not involved in any of that.”

“Oh, but you are, Megan.” He steps forward. “Until we find out exactly who did it and why, you’re in danger.”

“Why would I be in danger?” So long as Marco gets his money, I’m safe from him. Mira can stay safe.

“Because you didn’t get the drive to them. And you’re the only link to them that’s still alive, that we know of.”

My heart slams into my ribs. “So, you think they’ll come after me?”

“You’re definitely a loose end.” He nods.

“So, you’re not going to let me go home?” I glance at the door. There’s still no hope of me getting out of here without his approval.

“No, Megan.” He steps in front of me, blocking me again. “I’m not letting you go home.”

The back of his knuckles runs along my cheekbone. “And if you try to run again, this will be your new room.”

There’s a chill to his tone, just cold enough for me to know he means what he says. Alexander doesn’t make idle threats.

“All right,” I say as though I have some choice in this. “But my job.”

He closes his eyes as though he needs a moment to calm himself.

“Your only job right now is to go back up to our room and rest that ankle. It’s still bothering you. I can tell.”

“Our room?”

“Yes.” He nods.

“But you weren’t— You haven’t been sleeping in there, have you?” Every night I was alone and when I woke up, I was alone.

He cocks a grin.

“No, I haven’t been. But that changes tonight.” He makes a point of looking me over. “Now that I know you’re feeling better.”

“But…”

“We can talk over the terms of your new loan then.”

“You’ll never get that door open.” A soft voice scares me into dropping the hairpin I have shoved into the lock of Alexander’s office door.

Spinning around, I find a woman, a little younger than me, leaning against the wall with her arms folded and her glossy pink lips pulled into a knowing grin. She gives a pointed look at the hairpin lying on the carpet at my feet.

“Do you really think a man like Alexander Volkov is going to have a lock that can be picked with a bobby pin?” She bends down and scoops it up, pocketing it in the front pocket of her jeans.

I blink a few times, then look down the hall, half expecting him to come storming toward us.

“He’s not home if that’s what you’re worried about,” she says.

“I didn’t think anyone was home,” I say.

“Just the staff and me.” She tilts her head a little to the left. “But I’m not supposed to be here, so we’ll say I’m not.” She winks.

I blink a few more times. Maybe she’s a conjuring of my imagination. I’d been thinking, since Alexander left this morning—after giving me another warning about trying to leave—that this house is too big to be all alone in it.

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