Page 116 of There is No Devil

She frowns, her forehead furrowing.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

I reach in the pocket of my suede jacket, pulling out a small bottle of liquid pseudoephedrine.

“I put these drops in your drink. Colorless, tasteless. You might have noticed a little bitterness, but it obviously didn’t stop you drinking it down.”

“You spiked my drink?”

Color rises up her neck, from the collar of my stolen sweatshirt.

“Poisoned it, actually.”

She makes a move to get up from the couch, but she’s already unsteady. Her elbow buckles under her.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you. You’ll be dead before the ambulance arrives.”

“You sneaky littlebitch!You filthy nasty—”

“I wouldn’t do that either,” I snap.

She stops talking, her mouth closing like a trap. Her eyes water until the pupils swim, and I can see the shallow hitches of her chest. Some of this is fear, but the rest is the drug taking effect.

“That’s better,” I say, as she sinks back down.

“What thefuckdo you want?” she hisses, panting fast.

“I have the antidote. I’ll give it you. I just want to know one thing.”

“What?”

She’s writhing against the cushions, the pseudoephedrine taking hold.

I stare at her, face still as stone, not a hint of sympathy.

“I want to know my father’s name.”

She lets out several irritated hissing sounds, squirming on the cushions. Her face is deeply flushed now, her skin sweating. Her breath grows more and more shallow.

“Fuck you,” she snarls.

“Suit yourself,” I say, standing up from my chair.

“Wait!” she cries.

Tears run down both sides of her cheeks, mixing with the sweat. She clutches the front of the hoodie, pulling it away from her chest as if that will ease the pressure.

“Tell me his name,” I say, quietly, relentlessly.

She’s groaning and writhing, pulling at the shirt.

“Tell me. You don’t have much time.”

“Arghhhh!” she groans, rolling on her side and then on her back again, thrashing around in the blankets, trying to ease the pressure any way she can.

I’m colder than ice. I feel nothing but the relentless drive to squeeze this secret out of her. The one thing of value she could tell me, but she always refused.

“Tell me,” I order, my eyes fixed on her face while she twists in a rictus of agony.

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