ONCE I’M SEATED IN the taxi and safely moving, I start shaking. I’m sweaty, and I’m sure seconds away from bursting into tears. I need to call Detective Bryce and tell her I’m out. I can’t do this. There’s no way I’m stepping foot in that office ever again.
I understand now why the previous assistants would quit without a word, and I’m about to do the same thing. No warning, no notice. I am not going back. I open the laptop. Though I have no network connection, the message is still blinking. I click it open.
They are watching you.
That strange spacy feeling I experienced when I dislocated my knee a few years ago washes over me. Nausea hits hard, enough that I’m forced to press my hand to my mouth. What the f**k?
“We’re here, love.” The white-haired driver peers over his shoulder at me
