Page 32 of The Pleasure of Panic

“Oh,” I say, taking a deep breath to try to get my rapid breathing under control.

“Don’t trip,” Finn says, grabbing hold of my arm and leading me forward.

I do trip. Like immediately. Because the stone pathway leading up the dark house is uneven, just like the one at my house back in Denver. So I don’t pull away.

We stop at the front door, which is apparently locked with an electronic keypad, because Finn punches in a sequence of numbers and the door beeps. He swings the door open to reveal more darkness.

“Go on,” he says, encouraging me. “We gotta hurry before people start arriving. You want to be ready, don’t you?”

“Yes,” I whisper. But this whole thing is creepy as fuck. I really hope Chella knows what she’s doing and Jordan is trustworthy. I mean, the guy’s a lawyer, so you’d assume. But then again, there’s a million lowlife lawyer jokes for a reason, right? You can’t trust them. What the hell was I thinking?

He closes the door, eliminating the hazy moonlight leaking in from outside, and the entire place is pitch-black darkness.

I hold my breath, convinced this whole thing was a setup and he’s really here to—

Stop it, Issy!

I take seven quick breaths, then three long ones—the same technique I’ve been using to calm myself down for the better part of a decade—and say, “What’s going on?”

“What do you mean?” he says, flicking a switch to illuminate the room.

Which is… a living room. And not a well-decorated one, either.

“What the hell?” I ask, spinning around to see his face. “This cannot be the place.”

He shrugs as he punches in a sequence of numbers on the door again.

This time locking me in.

I don’t ask any more questions. I just react.

CHAPTER EIGHT - FINN

Her foot catches me in the mouth, then a fist chops me in the throat. I’m down on the ground gasping for breath in the span of three seconds. One second later the lights go off, and the darkness envelops us.

“What the—” I gasp out, just as I hear something crash across the room.

And I don’t get to finish, because she’s got something pressed against my throat. A stick, or a bat, or—

“You better start talking right now, Finn Murphy or whoever the fuck you are. Or I’m gonna break your windpipe with this fire poker.”

My body instinctively twists, unbalancing her, and the next moment, I’ve got her on her back and I throw the poker. It crashes against a wall.

There’s like half a second when I think I’ve got her pinned and now I’m on top, but she gets a hand free and jabs me in the eye. I can’t help it, I let go of her other hand and she clocks me—hard—right in the jaw. She delivers a second punch to my nose, and the hot sensation of blood dripping pulls me out of my momentary stupor. She’s on her feet, standing over me now, when I reach out, grab her ankle, and drop her to the floor. She kicks me in the chest, sending me reeling backwards, and then scrambles away—hidden in the darkness of the room.

“Issy—” I cough. Fucking Declan was right. This chick is goddamned dangerous!

“Who are you?”

I look off to the left where the words come from, but I can’t see shit. “Special Agent Finn Murphy!” I yell. “And I’m gonna arrest you now for assaulting an officer!”

“Fuck you!” she yells. And now the voice is somewhere else. Damn, this little bitch is fast. “This is not part of the game, and I’m two seconds away from taking you down for good if you don’t unlock that door and—”

I’m on my feet, heading in the direction of where I think the door is—but I don’t unlock it.

I flick the light back on.

She’s perched on top of a bookcase, crouched down on hands and feet, like a goddamned monkey ready to—