Page 140 of Swept for Forever
“He was paid to lie!” I growled.
Whittaker turned to the farmer. “Is that true, Mr. Guinness?”
He wrung his hands. “Yes.”
Whittaker’s jaw tensed. “I’ll look into it.”
“You didn’t check, did you?” I snapped. “Because checking takes time. And time slows you down. Can’t have that. Not when you’re out here trying to earn your nickname, huh?”
I leaned in, my voice cold.
“You like closing cases at lightning speed? Well, guess what? You’ve been running toward the wrong storm.”
Whitaker opened his mouth.
“Don’t.” I cut him off. “Withdraw every goddamn poster you created. Every bulletin, every alert. It was a terrible sketch of her anyway.”
He didn’t argue.
He just nodded.
It wasn’t enough. Not nearly.
But it wassomething.
I wouldn’t hand the stiff-necked bastard to Whitaker. I’d go through Boone to get closer. And I’d play it my way. He’d learn just how far I’d tear through the system to save my woman.
40
AUTUMN
The light filtering through the small window shifted. The glass was filthy and blurred, but I could tell that the top of the basement sat partly above ground. The air down here pressed in, squeezing every breath tighter. If only I could just reach it and crack it open.
I drifted in and out, my head sagging forward, my wrists screaming from the rope. I was still in the chair, still trapped, still waiting.
But not for rescue.
I had to get out before Dom got too far, before he risked everything trying to reach me.
Every time I surfaced, I tried. When the pain dulled just enough and the fog in my mind cleared, I tested the rope. It chafed. Bit. Refused to budge.
But it didn’t matter. I wasn’t stopping.
Once a gymnast, always a gymnast. Even if I’d left the floor routines behind years ago for a pool and a swimsuit. I’d chosen swimming in the end, partly because of Jimmy Van Beek and his cocky “you’d be faster in the water than flipping around in tights” comment.
But deep down, I never let go of gymnastics.
I shifted my weight forward, testing the restraint.
The ropes were solid. But the chair? It was not flimsy, exactly—it was real wood—but the frame flexed a little when I moved. There were no armrests, either. I could work with that.
My feet were planted on the floor, my core tight. I inched forward until I was half off the seat. Just enough space. Just enough room behind me.
I ducked my chin, rounded my shoulders, and drew my knees in. Then came the grind, lifting my bound wrists, inch by inch, up and over the backrest.
Agony tore through my shoulders. My joints howled, but I kept going. I was channeling every Phys Ed lecture I’d ever half-listened to. Controlled breathing. Neural focus. Pain as data, not destiny. If my department head could see me now, they’d skip the finals and overnight me the degree.
With a final jerk, I slipped free of the chair.
