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Malcolm's descriptions and my own interactions with him, but contrary to what most people think, being a shithead is a pretty big weakness, and it's the best weakness to exploit because shitheads never think of it as a weakness.
    I fought to keep my chin from lifting defiantly and instead tried to look scared. It wasn't hard. I was scared. But I wasn't going to go down without a fight. Malcolm said he admired that in me. I wouldn't let him down.
    Don looked mollified. “Very well. Do you know where the warehouse is?”
    Sullenly I shook my head and he sighed, as though he dealt with idiots like me every day and it was beginning to wear on his great soul. Reaching into his pants pocket he pulled out a phone and turned it on. He must have dialed this number frequently because he only had to hit a single spot on the screen before bringing it to his ear and listening for the voice at the other end.
    “Rick?” he said after a moment. “Yes. I need to know where all of Malcolm's personal effects are located. Yes, he moved them. Find out.”
    We stared at each other for a long moment while the man at the other end of the line did whatever it was he needed to do to find Malcolm's secret stash of worthless shit. I tried not to think about the fact that one of Malcolm's lawyers was named Rick. The implications were dreadful.
    On the other end of the line Rick came back and Don nodded. “Yes, thank you.” He hit the end button, stuffed the phone back in his pocket, then tilted his head and regarded me. “Let's go,” he said.
    I balked. “What?” I said. “Why do I have to go? I don't know anything!” Feigning ignorance of course. I knew lots, but I hoped that if I acted like he might let me go his opinion of my intelligence would sink even lower, if that were possible.
    My ruse worked. Contempt passed over his face and I saw that he had to fight rolling his eyes.
    What a shithead.
    “You are coming with me because I don't believe you. You must have come here looking for the evidence.” His eyes narrowed. “Turn out your pockets.”
    I glared at him as I did so, my heart in my mouth. If he strip-searched me it was all over...
    He watched, eyes bright, as I turned the pockets of my jeans out, showing him the holes in them. Then he walked toward me, his fine shoes loud on the wooden floor, and stuck his free hand into the pouch of my sweatshirt. His fingers were large, ungentle, and my stomach turned at the feel of them groping me through the thick fabric. He found my phone, took it and then, without warning, he lifted the hem of my sweatshirt and slipped his hand underneath.
    I couldn't help myself. I squeaked and tried to squirm away. “What the fuck, man?” I demanded. No one touches me without my consent. No one. “Hands off, pervert!”
    He seemed startled by my outburst. His gun hand was so close to me I thought I might be able to knock it out of his grip, but if I missed...
    He took a step back, and the moment was lost. Fuck.
    “Show me your chest,” he said, cool and collected again.
    “No,” I told him.
    He lifted the gun.
    Panic rose. “You shoot me and you'll never find the evidence,” I blurted, then cursed myself.
    “Oh?” he said. “I thought you didn't know where it was?”
    I ground my teeth. “I might have an inkling.”
    “Here?” he said.
    I shook my head.
    “The warehouse, then.”
    I didn't respond at all.
    He gave another exasperated sigh, then shoved his gun into his coat pocket, keeping it trained on me, and grabbed my arm.
    Old feelings rose up inside me. Fear. Despair. Desperation. The sting of the blade...
    “Don't be too afraid,” he said to me, patronizingly. “If you lead me to the evidence, I will pay you handsomely.”
    He really did think I was an idiot. Fine. I could play that role. “How... how much?”
    He smiled. “A million dollars?” he said. He pulled me roughly toward the stairs and pushed me down the first riser. I felt the presence of the gun trained on my back.