Total pages in book: 116
Estimated words: 109878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 549(@200wpm)___ 440(@250wpm)___ 366(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 549(@200wpm)___ 440(@250wpm)___ 366(@300wpm)
I shove the pill toward his mouth, but he jerks his head sideways and spits.
“Missed,” he gasps triumphantly.
“Damn it.” I pick up another pill from the bottle. “Hans, hold him steadier this time.”
“Is like trying to give medicine to very large, very angry child,” Hans observes, repositioning his grip. “Perhaps we need different approach.”
“I have an idea.” I grab a glass of water from the side table. “Leroy, you seem thirsty after all that struggling.”
“I’m not drinking anything either.”
“Hans, tip his head back slightly.”
We go through the same routine—nose pinching, waiting for him to gasp, then I try to pour water in his mouth. Most of it runs down his chin, but I manage to get enough in that he has to swallow or choke.
“There! See? You can swallow things.” I hold up another pill. “One more time.”
“This is insane,” Leroy sputters. “Blue, this is torture. Actual torture.”
“You would know,” Blue says mildly. “Saylor’s methods are significantly more humane than yours.”
The third attempt goes better. I get the pill positioned right as Leroy opens his mouth to curse at us, and Hans gives his jaw a helpful little push upward. Leroy’s eyes go wide as he realizes the pill is now in his mouth.
“Swallow,” I command, pinching his nose again.
He tries to spit it out, but Hans’s hand is covering his mouth now. Leroy makes muffled sounds of outrage, his eyes watering as he fights not to swallow.
But biology wins. After about thirty seconds of struggling, his throat bobs as the pill goes down.
“Success!” I step back, dusting off my hands. “See? That wasn’t so bad.”
Leroy glares at me with pure hatred. “What did you just make me swallow?”
“Something very good for you.” I check my watch. “Duffy said it takes about ten minutes to work. Maybe fifteen.”
“To work for what?”
“You’ll see.” I settle into the chair across from him, crossing my legs. I stare for several minutes. “So, while we wait, let’s chat. Was it worth it? Killing my father for money?”
“Your father was a fool who thought he could outsmart us.”
“Well, this fool’s daughter is about to outsmart you.” I check my watch again. “Eight more minutes, maybe.”
Leroy tests his restraints, pulling against the ropes Hans tied around his wrists. “What did you give me? Poison?”
“Something like that.”
Blue pushes off from the wall, moving closer. “How are you feeling, Leroy? Any symptoms yet?”
“I feel fine, you psychotic bastard. When I get out of here—”
“You’re not getting out of here,” I interrupt. “But please, continue your threats. They’re entertaining.”
Leroy keeps ranting about what he’s going to do to all of us when he escapes, but after a few minutes he starts sounding slightly slurred around the edges.
“Is too quiet in here,” Hans observes, glancing around the basement. “Maybe we need some music, Boss? Like the good old days when you always set your scenes to music. Has been long time.”
Blue’s face lights up. “Excellent idea, Hans. You’re absolutely right.” He moves to an ornate phonograph I hadn’t noticed before, sitting on a carved wooden table between the wine bottles. The machine is gorgeous—brass fittings gleaming despite their age, a massive horn speaker that flares out like a morning glory, and intricate scrollwork decorating the mahogany cabinet. “Let’s set the proper mood.”
He selects a record from a collection stored beneath the phonograph, places it carefully on the turntable, and winds the mechanism with ease. The needle drops onto vinyl, and suddenly the basement fills with the smooth, dark tones of a jazz standard about love and death intertwining. Perfect murder music.
“Oh, I love this song,” I say, starting to sway slightly in my chair. The music makes everything feel less like torture and more like . . . dinner theater. “Perfect choice.”
“Leroy,” Blue says pleasantly, “you’re very lucky. Not everyone gets live entertainment during their final moments.”
Hans starts nodding along to the bass line, his massive frame moving surprisingly gracefully. “Is very good song. Very . . . how you say . . . fitting.”
I can’t help myself—I start humming along, then quietly singing the chorus about dancing until dawn breaks. My voice echoes off the stone walls, turning the basement into an intimate concert venue.
“Feeling dizzy yet?” I ask Leroy sweetly between verses.
“I feel perfectly—” Leroy stops mid-sentence, blinking hard. “Actually, my mouth feels weird.”
“Weird how?”
“Tingly. Like when you eat too much pineapple.” He works his jaw experimentally. “What the hell did you give me?”
“Just wait for it.”
Two more minutes, and Leroy’s words come out thick and clumsy, like his tongue isn’t working right.
“My vision’s getting blurry,” he says, sounding concerned for the first time since I’ve been down here.
“Mm-hmm.” I check my watch again. “Right on schedule.”
“Blue, seriously. What did she give me?” Leroy’s question carries a note of panic now. “I can’t feel my fingertips.”
Blue examines his fingernails with casual interest. “I have no idea. This is Saylor’s show.”