Our Finest Moment ✔️

7

LIANA

I just keep staring at him. The man with the gorgeous face and no name. Unless he's Harold, and he's douche-y enough to talk about himself in third person. Though, he doesn't really look like a Harold, but I guess I don't look like a Liana either.

He looks like he's trying to solve a very difficult equation, while I'm tied to this stupid chair that's giving my butt a very numb feeling. The worst part is probably that I sat down and let myself be tied to it. It seemed better than trying to fight it and end up injured, because there's absolutely no way I'd get past that man.

And even if I could, I'm pretty sure I heard him lock the door after he came inside.

"Harold," he repeats, his butt now leaning against the table with all his torture tools. I'm relieved he's not moving towards me with those pads in his hands, because they look painful. "Henderson," he adds after a very long dramatic pause, and my eyes whips up to his.

He smiles that devious, wicked smile I've seen a few times while he's been in here. In our short time together, I've found out that this psychotic mobster, or crime boss, or don, or whatever, enjoys inflicting pain. And my thigh is throbbing from it.

"You remember him?" he asks, almost casually, as his eyes drops to the stupid pads. If he's trying to scare me, it's working. "You were no older than six when he died. Along with his wife. I believe they said it was a fire, but from what my source could tell me, I think they were both dead before the fire started."

My mouth dried out.

Our house caught on fire, that's all I remember. Not even their names have been on my mind for a long, long time. Harold Henderson—my father. "You're joking," I say, huffing at him.

The chance that this guy knows more than the police about my parents' deaths seems unlikely. Yet the growing heaviness in my stomach tells me I'm open to knowing more. Because I don't remember anything.

"You really don't know?" He sounds like he's mocking me.

He picks up a knife from his torture table, and hunches down in front of me. He's so close, I can smell him; a cologne with a strong woody scent, and something different. Something more earthy, something that makes me want to keep smelling him, even if that's a little creepy.

And not possible, because this guy is not someone I'd want to spend time with. And, I'm not going to live much longer anyway.

The cool blade leans against one of my forearms, and he makes it all seem so casual as he says, "Harold Henderson was a criminal, just like me."

My eyes moves from his arm holding the knife, to him. They're wide and I'm sure everything I feel at the moment is shock.

"You're lying." I stare at him. And then I start thrashing against the zip ties and the chair.

Pain shoots through my left arm, and he raises a brow, but he doesn't move the damn knife. So I stop struggling, and I decide I should probably try to listen, if he wants to tell me. Even if it's not possible that my father was anything 'just like him'.

I remember his smile, his laugh, and how he used to swing me around while mom tried to make him slow down. But that's the only memory I have now, and it's vague.

"I'm not a liar," he says, and retracts the blade from behind me. It's stained with blood—my blood—and I hold my breath to keep from gasping. It still stings, and I really hope it's clean. "I can show you the details, if you want. But, then I absolutely have to kill you after."

"Why?" I don't even know why I bother asking. He's a criminal. I'm someone he thinks spied on him. Of course he's going to kill me, I know that. "Why don't you just kill me right now, and get me out of my misery?" I supply, saving myself a little.