Page 37 of Widow's Walk

Scout and Spade drag the prisoner upright, binding his arms out and slightly above him with thick chains. His body hangs like dead weight, barely conscious, knees buckling beneath him. Blood has crusted over his face, painting him in dried violence, but every twitch, every shallow breath, opens his wounds anew. Fresh crimson seeping through cracked flesh.

His swollen eyes squint against the low light as he struggles to look around the room, disoriented and dangling like a carcass awaiting judgment.

I watch as Sinclair crouches beside the bag and picks up a softball, tossing it between her hands. “Thanks, boys,” she says easily as they step back to stand behind me with anticipation buzzing in the air.

She prowls forward like a lioness sizing up an injured gazelle. “Hello,” her voice rings out like a bird’s song. The bloodied man squints at her through hooded eyes as he tries to focus. Recognition flashes across his ruined face as he stares back at her angelic yet twisted one. His face quickly blooms with hatred. “I’m only going to ask you once. Obviously, your boss was in on this failed attempt at Blackwell’s life, but who else was in on it?”

He mumbles something unintelligible.

Sinclair responds with a step back. “Alright, then. Let’s do this.” She turns with a simple smile, walking back several paces like she’s on a runway. Shoulders back, spine steeled. Her confidence is the most alluring aspect of her thus far.

Facing her victim again, she brings both hands up to clasp the softball at her chest. Placing her right foot forward, she swings the ball back with her right arm, then swings it forward and rotates it in a full windmill motion, stepping forward with her opposite foot, releasing it, throwing her weight into that leg.

The ball whizzes by him, cracking against the wall with a violent thud, missing him by a hair. “Well, that’s embarrassing,” she mutters with a hint of playfulness in her tone. “Just warming up, boys!” she announces.

Picking up another ball, I sit on the edge of my seat and watch her take another crack at it. Everyone hisses and groans behind me when it makes contact with his right shoulder. He howls, sagging further against the chains. Fuck, that had to have shattered it.

“Who else was behind the attack?” she asks with a sugary sweet tone, picking up another ball.

When he answers with a pained groan, she lines herself up with another shot, and this time, as the ball cuts through the air with even more speed than the last, it connects with his face with a sickening crack. It had to have been going at least sixty miles per hour.

I know it’s lights out when blood sprays from the split flesh. She jumps forward with a gasp. “Oh, shit,” she says, inspecting her work like a bored surgeon. “Oh, good. I didn’t get your nose. You can still talk, right?”

“You fucking bitch!” he spits through the blood.

“Good. You can.” She looks over her shoulder, smiling and shaking her head. “It’s been a while, so my aim is a little off.”

I sit back and rest one ankle over a knee. “As entertaining as this is, is any of this even necessary?”

Raising an eyebrow, she picks up another ball, twirling it inside her hand, both of us tuning out the withering man behind her. “You still don’t think it was planned?” She looks behind me. “What about you, Scout? Some preening meatheads, or something more? Something calculated.”

I twist my upper body and look at Scout. “Well?” I prod.

He bounces back and forth between Sinclair and me. Wanting to be anywhere else but this room. “Something wasn’t right last night.” He’s right. I felt it, too. “It could have been random, or it could have been coordinated.”

My stare remains fixed on his for another moment before swaying back to Sinclair. “Alright, darling. See if you can make him talk.”

Predictably, the humor in her face morphs into gravity, taking my words as a challenge. Her eyes narrow as she rolls the next ball between her hands. Planting her feet, she pitches another one, crushing his ribs. He lets out a strained grunt, chains clinking above him.

“Ready to talk?” she asks coolly, the next ball ready to launch.

He spits a wad of blood out, and Sinclair’s lips thin, lining up another pitch. Her shoulders square, and she launches it. This time, landing right in the center of his chest.

She is fucking radiant when the power is hers. When she owns absolute control. God, I want her. But wanting her is wanting her fire, and I’m not sure how long I can stand in it.

“Alright, alright,” he gasps, wheezing for air and gurgling on blood.

Sinclair drops the next ball to the floor, taking deliberate steps forward. “Good boy,” she coos.

“Beck,” he pushes through heavy breaths.

“Beck, what?’ she asks so softly, like hushing a crying baby as she encroaches his space.

“Beck—he set it up.” The room falls into heavy, charged silence.

Behind me, I can physically feel Scout and the others stiffen. I sit forward, elbows resting on my knees, staring at the man hanging from chains like he’s already a corpse.

“Yeah, no shit. But who else?” There’s no humor or warmth left to Sinclair’s voice.

---