Page 128 of House of Cards

The incredulous look on her face is almost worth the backlash I’ll face from Myles when he finds out I pissed off one of our whales.

I don’t risk another second in her presence. Turning on my heel, I stalk away, scanning Troy’s reply on my cellphone.

I’ll drop Nathalie’s unwanted room card off at reception…right after I find out what the fuck is going on in the kitchen.

Zoey

Air. I need air.

I rush across Smith’s hotel room, fumbling with the balcony doors before I wrench them open.

A light drizzle spatters against my face as I grip the cool railing, mouth open, trying to gasp in some oxygen. Wind pushes against my face and shoulders, blowing harder bursts of rain against my skin, but it doesn’t help. Nothing helps.

Bile rushes into my mouth.

Fuck. I’m going to puke again.

I brace myself, leaning over the edge, wondering fleetingly if dying wouldn’t be easier at this point. My eyes dart down to the street below, the cars’ headlamps painting yellow streaks over the wet road?—

—and I hastily shove myself upright again, head reeling.

Nope. Nope, nope, nope.

A fall from this high won’t just kill me, it’ll turn me into sidewalk art. And if I die, so does Ricky.

I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to get my racing mind to stop. Force myself to take one hitching breath, then two.

I got this. I gotyou,Ricky.

Damn it, I can still hear his voice, hoarse and panicked before it got cut off by those sickening, meaty thuds. But the way he whimpered, “I’m sorry”…that’s what broke me.

Not Elonzo’s threats. Not how he spat ‘Marconi’like it was a curse. It was how Ricky sounded like he’d already given up.

Like he was saying his last goodbyes.

I step back from the ledge, raking trembling hands through my damp hair.

Can’t jump. Have to get out of here. If I’m not at the diner by midnight?—

Rain, traffic noise, and the blustery wind shut off as I slide the balcony door closed. I press my hands against the cool glass, scanning Smith’s hotel room.

The door? Locked. I checked this time.

I throw open drawers, yank open cabinets, looking for… I don’t even know what. A weapon to attack Smith with the next time he steps through that door?

A rope I can tie to the balcony railings?

Something to pick the fucking lock?

But all I find are clothes that smell like Smith’s cologne, a disappointing mini-bar that doesn’t even have enough alcohol in it for me to drown my sorrows, and a bathroom filled with non-lethal toiletries.

Despite the Smith-scented suits filling the closet, I doubt my tormentor actually lives here. There’s nothing personal or sentimental in this room. Not a single photo. None of the junk or comfort items a person usually accumulates—grocery receipts, paperback books, random ornaments, sweatpants.

I rip open his top drawer, hardly surprised when I find plastic zip-ties fashioned into handcuffs and an extra pair of soft leather gloves inside.

Sick freak.

Thunk.

---