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If Twigson is so amused by the whole situation, then there is only one explanation.

– What is your advantage? – I ask in a forehead, and once again I check whether the door is firmly locked. I’m already so angry inside that I’m about to burst like Vesuvius. It’s a shame the Moonshiners haven’t yet invented technology that can transmit not only words over the phone, but also kicks in the ass.

– Why do you suspect everyone of everything, Margot? – It’s like he’s sighing and moaning at the same time.

Universe, if you can really hear us all, I hope you’re hurting him badly this minute!

– Margarita, Mr. Twigson. – I repeat and defiantly interrupt his attempt to insert a comment. It is already clear that we are worthy opponents for each other in a verbal skirmish, and I do not even want to check how long we can bicker like this. And I won’t let him drag me into an argument, because that seems to be what the Lunnick is trying to do. – I don’t suspect everyone, Twigson, only the hard-hearted moonshiners who break into my house at night, reward me with an attack of heartburn, and, on top of that, happily inform me that it’s their fault my name will be bowed in all the garbage media.