Wendy Rosnau - A Younger Woman

“Say it. Swear to me you won’t leave.”

“You’re a jerk, a creep and a sadistic—”

“Swear on your father’s grave.” He rattled the cuffs.

“I swear, okay!”

Satisfied, he stuffed the cuffs back in his pocket. “Hungry?”

“For a piece of your liver,” Margo spat.

“Seriously, you need to eat something. What can I fix you?”

“You’re going to cook for me? You can’t cook, remember?”

“I’ve learned. At least I can get by until you can cook for me,” he taunted. “How does that sound?”

Margo didn’t bother to remind him she wasn’t going to be around long enough for that. She simply sneered back with a honey-coated grin and said, “Do you have arsenic in the house?”

He chuckled. “No, but I have eggs and shrimp. Still like shrimp for breakfast?”

The question and the memory it manifested had Margo biting the inside of her cheek. The pain reminded her of how dangerous it was to reminisce, as well as how vulnerable it made her feel.

“With shallots and chives?” He added, twisting the knife a little deeper.

“Cook what you want,” she snapped. “Start the kitchen on fire for all I care. Better yet, how about yourself?” Margo squeezed her eyes shut and pretended to tune him out. Suddenly she caught the scent of him, felt his hand on her forehead. Her eyes popped open. “What are you doing?”

“Making sure you don’t have a fever.”

When his hand left her forehead, he shoved it into his back pocket and pulled out a key. A twinge of panic knotted Margo’s stomach. My God, she’d forgotten all about Blu’s key.

“Recognize this?”

Margo clamped her mouth shut.

“Of course you do, it came from your pocket.” He was no longer grinning, his blue eyes razor sharp as he held Blu’s key up so she could see it clearly. “After breakfast we’ll discuss what it unlocks.”

He slipped the key back into his pocket, then reached for the portable phone on the nightstand and pocketed that, too. On his way out the door, he said, “I almost forgot. There’s a tape recorder in the drawer next to you. While you’re waiting for breakfast why don’t you listen to it?”

“I don’t feel much like listening to music,” Margo sniffed.

“It’s not music, but it’s just as entertaining. You don’t sound like yourself, but you were in a lot of pain last night. Well, maybe it wasn’t so much the pain as the whiskey talking, you think?”

He walked out of the room then, leaving Margo to wonder if the liquor he’d poured down her throat, had, in fact, done the dirty deed and loosened her tongue. And if that was the case, just what had she told Detective Archard that she shouldn’t have?

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