It was Marcus Vance. He slipped inside the elevator car with me and hit the emergency stop button. The machine lurched to a halt between floors.
“What do you want, Vance?” I snapped, my training taking over to keep my voice flat, devoid of the rage boiling beneath my skin.
Vance smiled, a thin, reptilian stretching of his lips. The air in the cab smelled heavily of peppermint and expensive scotch. He pulled a folded document from his breast pocket and tapped it against the steel handrail.
“Your brother is a survivor, Lauren,” Vance murmured, dropping the formalities. “And he’s offering you one last chance to be a good little girl.”
“I don’t negotiate with traitors.”
“You will today.” Vance stepped closer, invading my space. “If you get back on that stand tomorrow and admit you ‘exaggerated’ your testimony due to emotional distress, Grant takes a plea deal for a minor administrative error. Slap on the wrist. You go back to playing spy, and we all move on.”
