Chapter Three: The Poison

Angel

The room was silent, the kind of silence that feels like the air has been sucked out of the space. Drake Crane didn't let go of my wrists. His grip was strong, cold and unyielding.

"Who sent you?" he repeated. His voice wasn't a shout; it was a low, lethal whisper that made my skin crawl.

"I told you! I'm just a waitress!" I gasped, struggling against his hold. "No one sent me!"

He shoved me back slightly, though he didn't release me. He gestured with his chin toward the silver tray I had just placed on the table. "Why did you poison the food?"

I froze. My heart skipped several beats, then began to race so fast I felt dizzy. "Poison? What are you talking about? You haven’t even touched it. You haven't even taken the lid off!"

"I don't need to taste it to know a rat when I see one," he snapped. "You followed me from my office. You showed up here, in the one place you shouldn't be. You’re either the world’s unluckiest person, or you're a very bad assassin."

"Assassin?" I let out a choked laugh that sounded more like a sob. "I’m a writer! I’m here because you took my job, and I have a father who is dying in a bed ten miles from here! I need the money!"

Before he could answer, the heavy double doors of the suite burst open. Four security in black tactical gear stormed in. In a blur of motion, I was ripped away from Drake and forced onto the marble floor.

"Get down! Hands behind your back!" a deep voice barked.

I felt the cold floor against my cheek. My knees slammed into the stone, and the wind was knocked out of me. "I didn't do anything! Please!"

"Search her," Drake commanded. He stood back, his arms crossed, watching me with a look of pure clinical interest, as if I were a bug under a glass slide.

A female guard stepped forward. Her hands were rough and quick. She patted down my vest, my pockets, and my trousers. I felt her hand stop at my small side pocket.

"Sir," she said, her voice tight.

She pulled out a small, clear plastic vial filled with a white, crystalline powder. My eyes widened until they hurt.

"What is that?" I screamed, my voice cracking. "I’ve never seen that in my life! I don't know what that is!"

"It's a gift for my tea, I assume," Drake said. He walked over, took the vial from the security, and held it up to the light. "Cyanide? Or something slower?"

"I didn't put that there!" I was crying now, hot tears streaming down my face. "Please, listen to me! I was downstairs. The supervisor, he gave me the tray! He told me to come to the penthouse! He said it was for a dignitary!"

Drake knelt down in front of me, his expensive suit trousers brushing against my servant’s uniform. He tilted my head up with one finger under my chin. "What was his name? This supervisor."

"I... I don't know!" I sobbed. "Everyone just calls him Boss or Sir. He had a red tie. He was balding. Please, go find him! He gave me the tray!"

Drake looked at one of his guards. "Find him. Bring him here."

The guard stepped out of the room, speaking rapidly into a radio. I stayed on my knees, my chest heaving, my mind spinning in circles. How did this happen? How did a job interview turn into a murder charge?

Minutes felt like hours. The female guard kept her hand on my shoulder, pinning me down. Finally, the guard returned. His face was grim.

"Sir, the man she described is gone. He clocked out ten minutes ago and vanished through the service exit. We checked his file, the ID he used was stolen."

I felt the last bit of hope leave my body. "No... no, that can't be right."

"And the CCTV?" Drake asked, his voice flat.

"The footage for the last hour on the kitchen floor and the service elevator has been wiped, sir. It's a professional job. Clean. No trail."

Drake turned his gaze back to me. The suspicion in his eyes turned into something darker. "So. No supervisor. No footage. Just a girl with a grudge and a pocket full of poison."

"I didn't do it!" I begged, moving forward on my knees toward him. "Why would I do this? I don't even know you! I met you for five minutes in a hallway and ten minutes in a boardroom! Why would I kill you?"

"Maybe you're working for the people who want my chair," he mused. "Maybe you're just a pawn."

"I'm not a pawn! I'm a daughter!" I yelled. "Check my phone! Call my father! Ask Ella downstairs!"

The female guard lost her patience. "Enough screaming," she snapped. She raised her hand, her palm flat and hard, swinging it toward my face to silence me.

I closed my eyes and flinched, waiting for the sting of the blow. I braced my neck, ready for the pain.

But the hit never came.

The room went silent again. I opened my eyes slowly.

Drake was standing right in front of me. His hand was clamped around the female guard's wrist, stopping her mid-swing. He didn't look at the guard. He was looking at me.

"I didn't tell you to hit her," Drake said. His voice was like a blade of ice.

"Sir, she's lying and she's being disruptive" the guard started.

"I decide who is lying," Drake cut her off. He shoved her arm back and looked down at me. I was a mess, hair falling out of my clip, eyes red and swollen, shaking like a leaf in a storm.

He reached out and grabbed my arm, pulling me up from the floor. He didn't do it gently, but he didn't do it with the same violence the guards had. He turned me toward the window, forcing me to look at the city lights.

"If you are lying to me, Angel Molley," he whispered into my ear, "I will make sure you never see the sun again. "I'm telling the truth," I choked out. "I swear on my father's life."