Chapter Sixty-Nine
Asher
I catch myself staring at the empty water bottle again. The plastic is dented, the last swallow gone hours ago. They left it here on purpose. So I’ll ask for more. So I’ll give them something they can use.
They won’t bring another. Not until they can hear the dehydration in my voice. One more session? Two?
The walls ripple at the edges if my gaze drifts now. The harsh light turns the room into one continuous expanse of ash white. I pull my focus back to the table before my mind starts inventing things that aren’t there.
The longer they have me, the worse the distortion will get. I’ve started counting the scratches in the table.
At twenty-seven, the door handle clicks. I hold myself still. Flinching gives them a lever they can use, and I’m still sharp enough not to hand it to them on a silver platter.
Chad is first this time, Mark a step behind, tablet in his hand.
They don’t rush, movements as purposeful and slow as the last two sessions, but this time, Chad stays behind me, a hand on the back of the chair while Mark takes a seat across from me.
“Well,” Chad says, leaning closer so his shadow cuts across my forearms, “your partner’s been busy this afternoon.”
Afternoon.
The word makes little sense in this room.
Mark stares pointedly at the empty water bottle, then back at the tablet. “Calder sent us a message. And apparently, she’s been in a sharing mood.” His finger drags across the screen. “A couple of memos, a list of names…”
Chad moves to the side of the chair, his hand coming down on my shoulder with enough pressure, I have to engage my core. “People have been asking questions.”
I keep my breathing steady, my gaze pinned to Mark’s, and the wave of relief buried deep down where they can’t see it.
The clock in my head isn’t the only one running now.
Chad’s fingers dig into the muscle along the top of my shoulder. Not enough to hurt. Yet. A signal that his patience is wearing thin.
“What does she know about the Operational Standards Intensive?” he asks.
I take another slow, steady breath, and keep my expression neutral.
Mark sets the tablet down. I could probably read the screen if I tried, but that’s a tell I won’t give them. “The silent treatment won’t get you very far, Mr. Locke.”
Now this? This I can use.
“You’ve cleared my schedule for the afternoon,” I say, flexing my fingers so the chain scrapes against the metal rings welded to the table.
Mark huffs once. “We’ll try this again, Mr. Locke. What does Raine Calder know about the Operational Standards Initiative?”
The two men go back and forth for at least ten minutes—asking about OSI, about Raine’s whereabouts, and my involvement—before Chad loses patience. He moves quickly, releasing the chain from the metal rings in the table and using it to pull me to my feet.
The sudden shift in position sends my vision fraying at the edges. Before I can orient, I’m facing the wall. The two men work together, freeing one wrist, then the other, only to secure them to rings mounted in the concrete at shoulder height.
The position forces me into a slight lean, my shoulders tight.
The muscles in my core, already fatigued, have to work even harder.
Mark returns to his chair, while Chad kicks my feet to widen my stance and put more pressure on my wrists.
I flex my fingers to maintain circulation.
The wall is smooth enough the texture barely registers.
“Let’s try again,” he says. “How long has she known about OSI?”
I shift my weight, rebalancing and taking a small amount of pressure off my lower back. “Long enough.”
Chad lets out a breath that almost turns into a laugh. “That helpfulness thing you’ve got going on? Yeah, that won’t last.”
The muscles along my ribs tighten as the strain in my shoulders deepens, but I keep my expression neutral.
“What else does she have?” Mark asks.
Ah, there is it. The only question that matters. If they knew, they wouldn’t be asking.
I shift again, but it’s slower this time. The pain in my side reminds me the glass is still there somewhere under the bandage.
Chad moves close enough I can smell the coffee on his breath. “Do you really want to stand here all afternoon?”
A single scuff in the paint draws my gaze. I can use that. It keeps my focus from drifting, keeps my expression neutral, keeps my mind sharp.
“That depends,” I answer.
“On?”
My tone doesn’t change. Nothing does. “On how many times you insist on asking the same question.”
Pressure hits the back of my left knee. The cuffs rattle, my forehead brushes the wall, and every muscle in my back protests. A harsh breath hisses between my teeth before I can lock it down.
“Feeling it now, Locke?” Chad starts to pace behind me, and the questions continue.
Five minutes. Ten. I stop following the words. Instead I count my breaths. Something steady to anchor to while the questions pass through the room and dissolve against the wall in front of me.
Eventually, Mark’s chair scrapes against the concrete floor. “That’s enough for now.”
Chad steps in, releasing the cuffs from the wall. My arms drop immediately, shoulders protesting as blood rushes back into muscles locked in place for too long.
He steers me back to the chair, drags my wrists forward, and secures them to the rings welded to the table. This time, there’s enough slack I can rest my forearms against the cool metal.
The change is more calculation than kindness. They need me functional. I focus on my breathing until the ache in my upper body fades to something manageable.
I go back to counting the scratches in the table. Their questions were more revealing than any of my answers. They can measure the damage Raine’s done. They have no idea how much more is coming.