“Terrified.”
“Then it worked.”
Her cheeks turned hot with anger and embarrassment over being so gullible, but she wanted to keep this conversation going. The more she learned, the better armed she would be. She just needed to brush up on her lie-detecting skills, because he was an accomplished liar.
But assuming he was being at least partially truthful, she asked, “What kind of confirmation will he require?”
“I’ll know when I ask him.”
“You’ve had twelve hours or more to negotiate a new deal with him. In the meantime, you’re stuck with mouthy me here in these swell surroundings.” She pointed out a rip in the tin roof that looked like it had been made with an old-fashioned can opener. “Aren’t you anxious to get to Mexico and that cerveza? What’s holding you back?”
He scooped the last of the food from the can, dropped the spoon into it, and set it on the floor. He pulled the bandana from his pocket and wiped his mouth and hands, then stretched his legs out in front of him, folded his arms over his midriff, and crossed his ankles.
She noticed that the soles of his cowboy boots had seen a lot of wear. They’d been lived in. Like his face.
“You love your brother?”
The unexpected question snapped her gaze back up to his. “Why do you ask?”
“Just answer me.”
“Of course I love him. He’s my brother.”
“He’s a double-crossing chickenshit.”
Reacting as though he’d slapped her, she retorted, “What do you know about Josh, about anything?”
“Even a guy like me watches TV every now and again.”
“Triple-X pay-per-view.”
“Sometimes I catch the news. What I didn’t know about the Panella case, Mickey filled in yesterday while we were trailing you.”
“Trailing me?”
“We followed you around town. Waited while you got your manicure. Parked down the street from your house.”
“Spying on me.”
“Not so much spying as plotting how we were gonna…you know.”
“You were formulating plan A. What was plan A?”
“Doesn’t matter. It got scrubbed. Back to your brother—what was life like when you two were kids?”
“Why do you care?”
“Stop answering every question with a question.”
“Then stop asking me questions.”
“You don’t like my questions?”
“I don’t like your prying. Or is delving into the background of your victims part of your MO?”
“My MO?” That amused him. “I guess you watch some TV, too.”
He came as close to smiling as she’d seen, but it didn’t soften his mouth or any other feature. If anything, it emphasized the harsh angularity of his face.