Vance stared at the bright screen of my mobile phone. He did not drop the thick manila envelope, and he did not show any immediate panic. He was a professional investigator who dealt with hostile corporate executives every single day, so he assumed I was just a frightened waitress playing a desperate game to save my wealthy husband.
"You are bluffing, little girl," Vance told me with a dismissive sneer. "You did not record anything. You are just holding a blank screen to buy Mason some time to think."
I did not lower my arm, and I made sure the screen remained illuminated in the dim service hallway. The air around us smelled heavily of hot cooking oil and strong floor cleaner, a sharp contrast to the expensive perfumes filling the ballroom just a few feet away. I focused my mind on the practical survival skills I learned at the diner.
