“I’m not doing it,” the man snaps back, his voice rising with every word. “I don’t care what you do to me. I’m not going near that house again, and I won’t send one of my boys, neither.” “You’re being ridiculous. This is a seventeen-year-old girl we’re talking about. How can she possibly—” “You can’t know what I saw.” The man – Brentwood – rasps his words, his voice tight with terror. “You find someone else, Mr. Marlowe. That’s no sweet-sixteen beauty queen you’re facing off against. She’s a cold-blooded killer.”
