19. Ellie #2
My pulse whooshes in my ears. My father. His research. That classified project he worked on those last few years, the one that made him paranoid and secretive, and distant.
"I see you're making connections," Grace observes with satisfaction. "Good. That's why you're here, Eleanor. Not merely as leverage against Killian, but as a primary source of intelligence in your own right."
"I don't know anything about his research," I say, the truth providing some solid ground.
"Perhaps not consciously," she concedes.
"But men like Gregory Hart always leave contingencies.
Breadcrumbs for those who know where to look.
" Her gaze intensifies, the pupils of her eyes tiny black needles.
"You've found something. Something that connects back to his work and threatens the Order's system. "
"You're mistaken," I insist. But my mind is already racing back to what I know about his research, which is precious little. He'd been obsessively secretive about his government work, compartmentalizing it completely from his family life.
"Time will reveal the truth." Grace rises smoothly, smoothing the charcoal fabric over her hips. "This has been an illuminating first session. I'll leave you to consider your position."
She extends a hand without looking. The guard steps forward and places a leather-bound notebook and fountain pen into her palm. She sets them on the mattress beside me.
"A gift. I thought you might appreciate a way to process your thoughts.” Her voice carries the warmth of false generosity. "When we meet tomorrow, we'll discuss Killian's network. His associates, his resources. I suggest you prepare comprehensive answers."
"And if I don't?"
"Then I'll be forced to use less… elegant methods." Her tone remains level. "While I prefer psychological approaches, Julian favors more... direct techniques. If he returns and finds you uncooperative, I'm afraid I won't be able to protect you from his methods."
We both know she’ll read every word. We both know I’ll lie.
“You’ll write false information,” Grace continues, as if reading my thoughts. “Wrong ages. Incorrect specialties. Small rebellions that make you feel clever.”
She taps the journal.
"But misdirection reveals more than truth, Eleanor. The specific lies you choose. The details you protect. The people you try hardest to obscure. Your misdirection will show me exactly what matters most.”
She’s right. Every lie I craft creates a map of my priorities.
I take the journal anyway. Because not taking it shows weakness. And because maybe, if I’m smart enough, I can lie in ways that misdirect her misdirection.
It’s exhausting, this chess game played with my own psychology.
That’s exactly what she wants.
She moves toward the door, then pauses. "One last thing. If you're entertaining thoughts of rescue, I should mention that Killian Blackthorn is almost certainly dead. The amount of blood in the house suggests a catastrophic injury."
The sentence is designed to rupture my composure. Killian might be dead. But I keep my face blank. I don’t give her the satisfaction of seeing me break.
"You don't believe me," she observes. "Understandable. Hope is a powerful anesthetic against reality. But it makes you vulnerable in ways you can't afford."
The guard follows and closes the door behind her, leaving me alone with the notebook, the pen, and her poisonous words.
I stare at the journal. Anything I write will be read, analyzed for weaknesses and leverage points. Every word a potential weapon against me. Against Killian, if he's still alive. No, he is alive. He's alive until I've seen proof.
I lift the notebook. The leather is supple under my thumb, the pages thick enough to hold a pen's ink without bleeding through.
This isn't only about data; it's about the illusion of civilization.
Grace wants me to feel like a guest, because a guest feels safe enough to be honest. A prisoner only knows how to survive.
I know the score. Write what she wants, or the guards get permission to conduct their own 'interrogation.' I pick up the pen and start to map out a series of credible lies.
I weave in flawed details about Killian's team.
Kai's age gets inflated. Jackson gets stripped of his tech specialties and given a generic infantry background.
I alter Gabriel's military service records to something unverifiable.
I need to appear cooperative, a "primary source" worth keeping intact, while leading Grace into a logistical dead-end.
Time is just a series of red blinks from the camera. I don't know how long I write, but eventually, the door groans open and Grace returns. She accepts the notebook with a nod, her manicured fingertips tracing the ink before it’s even dry. She reads in silence.
"Interesting approach, Eleanor," she says. "Clinical detachment as a defensive mechanism. Did they teach you that at Stanford?"
I stay silent. Information is the only currency I have left.
She closes the notebook. "Your information about Killian's associates is... creative. But ultimately unhelpful." She reaches for a tablet I hadn't noticed before. "I appreciate the effort, flawed as it was. But I think you need motivation to be more forthcoming."
She turns the tablet toward me.
Timestamp says forty-eight hours ago. Footage of masked men pouring through my front door, rifles up, spreading through the living room like a virus.
My mind is sluggish from the sedation, but it's sharp enough to spot what's wrong with what I'm watching. This isn't how it happened.
"This isn’t right," I say.
Grace doesn't blink. "Denial is the first stage of trauma, Doctor."
"No," I shake my head. "I was there. This isn’t what happened."
In the footage, Killian takes multiple rounds to the shoulder and leg. He collapses behind the kitchen island, a spray of arterial red hitting the white marble.
Not this. Not whatever she’s showing me.
"You doctored this." My voice comes out harder than I expect. "This didn't happen."
“Believe what you need to believe, Eleanor. But I think you know the truth when you see it.”
She lets the footage play. I watch Killian take a bullet to the shoulder. Then the leg. He goes down behind my kitchen island, blood spreading.
It looks real. The frame-rate, the lighting, the way the dust hangs in the air.
But I know what I saw. What I felt. The explosion.
Killian’s hands on me, pushing me down. The sharp sting of the dart in the side of my neck and the way the world dissolved into gray-scale as my nervous system shut down.
Unless?
The doubt creeps in. Unless there’s more to what happened than I remember? Unless while I was unconscious, this happened? Unless they came back?
Grace watches me work through it.
That’s when I understand. It doesn’t matter whether the footage is real or fake. What matters is that she’s planted uncertainty in my mind. Making me question my own memories.
Making me afraid that Killian is dead.
"He fought admirably," Grace comments, watching my face rather than the screen. "Most men would have fallen after the first two shots. But Killian always did have a remarkable pain tolerance."
I watch the screen. Killian disappears from the frame, pursued by two operatives. The footage cuts to black.
“Corrupted during extraction,” Grace says with a rehearsed sigh.
She’s planted the seed. She wants me to doubt my own memory. She wants me to believe Killian is bleeding out on a marble floor I don't recognize.