As if dreaming, Horton viewed her captor dispassionately. With short groomed hair and a square jaw, he was undeniably handsome. But his dark eyes held the same frigidity she’d seen in Martineau’s the night before. A surge of disgusted indignation tore through her. A day earlier she had slept with Martineau. And now he’s sent this quiet monster for me, she thought. Clearly, Byington and Martineau hadn’t trusted her to protect Oraloxin’s dirty secrets.

She wished she’d had the guts to speak out sooner, as Viktor had begged her. Maybe none of this would have happened, she thought bitterly.

Viktor! It suddenly clicked. She turned to the man angrily. “There was no fishing accident, was there? You killed Viktor Leschuk, didn’t you?”

He stared blankly. “I don’t discuss my work with anyone.”

She took his answer for an admission. “You bastard,” she murmured.

He didn’t respond.

Horton’s eyes focused on the pen and notepad in front of her. “You expect me to write a note, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Do you really believe I would fake my own suicide note?” she asked, shaking her head.

“Why don’t you have a glass of wine? Then we can discuss it.”

She shook her head vehemently. “The whole bottle won’t change my mind.”

He lifted his hand with the knife and tapped it against his other palm. “Dr. Horton, you may reconsider still.”

Horton swallowed hard, but her resolve held firm. “I’m dead anyway. What more can you do to me?”

He frowned almost imperceptibly. “What makes you think I’m talking about you?”

At first, his words struck her as an empty threat. Both her parents were dead. She had no other family. The closest she came to a significant other was Martineau. And the thought of harm befalling Martineau appealed to Horton. Then it dawned on her. Neil Ryland! Neil was the final member of Oraloxin’s inner circle. She realized her death could serve a purpose. If only she could use the note to warn Ryland.

Reaching for the wine bottle, the violent tremor in her hand surprised her. She pulled the cork out of the bottle and filled her glass, spilling a few drops as she did so in the process. She took a sip of the dry wine. It tasted better than any wine she remembered. Composing her thoughts, she finished the glass in absolute silence and then refilled it. She drank the next glass even more slowly, buying time while she considered precisely how to phrase her note, knowing the wrong word would nullify her effort.

She pushed the glass away and reached for the pen and paper. She looked to her captor with undisguised contempt. “What would you want me to say?” she said.

He flashed a brief smile, which only emphasized his iciness. “How about good-bye?”