"WHO. WAS. IN. THAT. CORRIDOR." Blair had escalated from shaking to holding the sack with one hand and pointing at Marek's chest with the other, the universal posture of a woman who was going to get her answer or she was going to remove the bag and let him see exactly who was about to ruin his entire life.
Marek's breathing cracked. The held inhale released in a rush that took the resistance with it.
"I don't know his name," he said. "Hooded. I've only met him twice. He gives me instructions and I carry them out."
Blair pulled the sack up again. Marek flinched before she even raised her hand, which meant the first slap was still paying dividends.
She didn't slap him. She let him flinch. Let the anticipation do the work. Then she flicked him on the forehead with two fingers.
Bag back down.
"That's for wasting my time. The slap was for Guinevere. We are on a SLIDING SCALE, Navarre, and you are sliding toward the side that has buckets."
