Ethan tilted his head, studying my face for any sign of a bluff.

The air in the room felt thick and hard to breathe.

Outside, the distant rumble of city traffic was the only sound.

“You always were a terrible liar,” Ethan said. “You kept the ledger close because you don’t trust banks.”

He looked at my large leather purse sitting on the corner of the desk.

He reached for it.

I didn’t try to stop him.

He tipped the bag over, spilling my keys, a wallet, a bottle of pain medication, and a notebook onto the steel surface.

The ledger was not there.

Ethan frowned, his fingers sifting through the items.

“Where is it?” he demanded, his voice losing its smooth veneer.

“It’s safe,” I said.

“I have patience, Claire, but my associates do not,” Ethan said, his eyes darkening. “The men who fund my projects are not as polite as I am.”

“The ones in the Russian syndicates?” I asked.

Ethan smiled again, a cruel, sharp expression.

“They don’t care about your injuries,” Ethan said. “They only care about their investments.”