As he walks toward me, Orson’s dress shoes tap against the concrete floor. The sound echoes against the walls and the ceiling far above our heads. Around the perimeter of the room, men are stationed a few feet apart. I’ve lost sight of Prescott. And although I’m not alone with Orson Yates, it very much feels that way.
He halts a few paces from me. Out of spitting range, I note. Not that I’m that petty.
Actually, I am.
“I’m so sorry that it’s come to this,” he says.
He doesn’t sound the least bit sorry.
“You could’ve cooperated. You could’ve been a part of this, like your mother was.”
Yes, my mother, who died under mysterious circumstances. I strain against the zip tie that binds my wrists. My shoulders ache and the plastic is so tight, my fingers feel numb. The pole is cold and rough
