“I don’t give a shit—”
“Yes you do,” she says, cutting me off. “You give a shit because you do care about Izabel. And because you care about your brother, despite him being with the woman he loves and you’re left with nothing.”
“Who are you, really?” I ask, glaring into her seemingly unruffled features.
“Don’t change the subject.”
My hands come up and brace her shoulders, shoving her away from the table and pushing her violently against the nearest wall. Her blonde hair falls down around her face. She surrenders to me, raising both arms out beside her, pressed against the painted brick. Her eyes search mine in close proximity, and mine search hers; a strange feeling of familiarity in them.
I shake it off and think of Izabel for a moment, and then the act I’ve been putting on since she officially became a part of our organization fades away and leaves me standing in a puddle of truth.
“So what if I care,” I say icily, my face mere centimeters from hers. “She’s grown on me; what can I say? She fuckin’ hates me because I tried to kill her, but I can’t really blame her for that, can I?” I pause, inhaling her natural scent, not because I want her, but because we’re all fucking animals inside and—OK, I want her, just to prove that she’s not the one in control here. I want to fuck her and then I want to leave her, naked, and bent over the table, just for being such a bitch.
“What do you want to know?” I ask, and then I shove her and step away. I hear the back of her head gently hit the wall. “This is stupid. I have no secrets, just like I said. But whatever you’re wanting me to ‘confess’, just fucking say it. Can’t force me to confess something I have no idea what it is.”
“I want you to look up at that camera,” Nora says in a gentle, intent voice, “and tell them how much Claire meant to you.” My whole body stiffens hearing Claire’s name come out of Nora’s mouth. “Tell them about the day you lost her. And I want to hear the words from your heart, not just your lips. Set the stubborn, loveless asshole aside for a moment to tell them about Claire. The real Niklas Fleischer is your confession.”
Her throat is in my hand before I know what I’m doing; my gun disappears behind the waist of my pants. Flooded by rage, I lift Nora from her feet and carry her the short distance back to the table, slamming her back against it.
“I’ll fucking kill you!” I roar down into her face, my hand collapsed around her throat.
“Do it!” she challenges; struggling to find all of her voice. “Kill me! Do it, Niklas! DO IT!”
The breath in my lungs is as heavy as cement; my eyes wide and feral as I glare down into her pink and purple-shaded face. Both of her hands struggle to pry my fingers away; her long legs are wrapped around my waist, tightening around me like a boa constrictor, but for nothing. Because I can’t be stirred in this moment. She could take my gun from the back of my pants and shove it underneath my chin and I wouldn’t give a fuck—I’d choke her to death before she got a shot off.
Finally, just before she loses consciousness, I let go of her throat and yell something indecipherable into the room; every part of me consumed by rage and hatred.
She gasps and chokes, scrambling to fill her lungs with air again, her legs hanging precariously over the side of the table.
I pace the floor, back and forth in an enraged march, my eyes looking downward at the scuffmarks on the tile, up at the bare walls—anything but Nora, or the hidden cameras in the room with eyes on the other side of them looking back at me with their judgments and assumptions.
But the only face I see, the only person I can think about is Claire. I’ve tried for six years to put her out of my mind; six fucking years, only to have this girl dangle Claire’s face, and her death, in front of me, torturing me.
“Niklas,” I hear Nora say softly from behind, but the rest of what she might have been about to say fades into the quiet of the room.
I spin around on my heels and march back over to her. She flinches, but just slightly, not enough to make her look afraid. I grab the back of the chair I had been sitting in and slide it out roughly before dropping all of my weight into it.
Nora just looks at me for a moment, still laying partially on the table, but finally her body slides off and she stands upright, adjusting her silk blouse.
I point at her chair.
“Sit.”
She does without argument, and it’s a good thing because at this point I could go either way at the drop of a hat—tell her about Claire, or blow her brains against the wall.
I pull a pack of cigarettes from my back pocket and toss them on the table.