DeclanThe basement smells of old blood and damp concrete.Marcus is tied to the metal chair, wrists and ankles locked in chains. His face is already swollen, lower lip split, nose crooked. Even so, he’s still holding out. It’s been almost two hours.I circle him slowly, black shirt sleeves rolled up to my elbows. Harvey leans against the back wall, arms crossed, watching in silence. Every now and then he asks a precise, surgical question. I prefer to use my hands.“Once more,” I say, voice hoarse. “Who gave the order to film Claire?”Marcus spits blood onto the floor.“Richard,” he answers, exhausted. “It was always Richard.”I slam my fist into his ribs. The air explodes out of his lungs with a sickening wheeze. Marcus contorts in pain but doesn’t scream.“Why does he want pictures of my daughter?” I demand, leaning in close to his battered face. “Answer.”Marcus lifts his swollen eyes. For the first time, something different flickers in them. It isn’t just fear. It’s resignation.“
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