Chapter Seventy-Six
Raine
I stretch my legs before I open my eyes, relishing the warmth from under the blanket.
For exactly half a second, I don’t remember. There’s just the pillow against my chest, the low light from the bedside lamp, and the music playing from the living room.
Then it all comes crashing back at once.
I tighten my arms around the pillow. It smells like me now. Not him. The loss hurts.
I can’t dwell on that. I slept too long. Almost three hours, not two. How much did they make Asher suffer in that extra hour?
Up. Coffee. Affidavit.
The kitchen is cold and dim. I move through it on autopilot, filling the kettle, reaching for the shelf where Asher keeps the grinder—
My fingers curl around the handle of the French press. Not the pour-over setup he bought for me. His preferred method of making coffee.
I’m frozen, the glass carafe shaking in my hand. The kettle starts to bubble softly. I can’t just stand here.
“Okay,” I whisper to no one.
Grind the beans. Measure carefully. Add a splash of water. Let the scent bloom. Wait. Fill the press to the line. Stir.
I’m waiting for the steep to finish when my phone lights up on the table. One new email. No subject line. Just an attachment.
Agent Calder,
Consider this a professional courtesy.
Mr. Locke’s current condition reflects the consequences of his choices. And yours. That condition will deteriorate unless you cease your activities immediately and make arrangements to come in.
We have no interest in unnecessary outcomes. That will change soon.
My hand shakes as I tap the link at the bottom of the message.
Asher sits under a harsh fluorescent glow, the wall behind him so pale, it’s almost pure white. Exhaustion hollows his gaze, and though he’s focusing on the camera, his jaw is slack. A tiny smear of blood stains the corner of his mouth.
“State your name,” a man says from somewhere out of the frame.
“Mason Locke.” His voice is wrecked. Thin. But he’s not folding. Everything they ask him to say, he refuses with a simple, “No.”
I press my fist against my mouth when they hit him. His head snaps to the side, and he almost goes down. His jaw and neck muscles strain as he sits up.
“Tell her to stop,” the man says again.
The sound Asher makes might be a laugh. “Still no. I’ve seen better plays from a junior varsity team who just lost their quarterback.”
“Very well. Your lack of cooperation will be…noted,” the disembodied voice says before the video cuts out.
My vision blurs. The phone shakes in my hand. Tears cool on my cheeks. I grab the edge of the counter to steady myself and almost knock the French press onto the floor.
For several seconds, I can’t move. What if this is the last image I ever see of him? Why didn’t I take a picture before he left? Why didn’t I think I’d want one? Need one.
I watch the video again. Looking for signs they’ve hurt him in a way he can’t recover from. Nothing visible. I tell myself that means something, but I don’t quite believe it.
The third time, I focus on his voice.
Junior varsity? Quarterback?
Asher’s never mentioned sports. Hiking, sure. Not football. Not high school football.
Junior Var—
JV.
Julian Voss.
He’s still himself enough to tell me who was in the room. Voss is on site.
That single thought does what nothing else could. It steadies me.
GSD wants me afraid. Unstable. Manageable. Asher just sent me proof that they’re the ones running scared.
I’m sure he’s in pain. I’m sure he’s exhausted and injured and doesn’t know if he’ll make it out. But he’s not broken.
And neither am I.
I don’t reply right away. An immediate reply is its own kind of data—it tells them the video worked. That I’m reactive. That I can be rattled into moving before I’m ready.
I pour the coffee. Open a container of yogurt. Force myself to eat while the sky lightens a fraction outside the window.
And I think about Voss in the room with Asher.
By the time I finish the last sip of coffee, my hands are steady. I move to the laptop to draft my reply.
I watched the video.
Mr. Locke’s condition is noted. So is the message you intended it to send.
What I’ve released so far describes the program. What comes next describes what the program did to me, specifically, with documentation. My name. My voice. My body. That’s a different category of problem than foundational memos and quietly “retired” agents.
Release Mason Locke.
You’ve never dealt with someone who escaped your program before. Someone who didn’t break. Someone you sent to disposal but lost. I suggest you follow my lead on how this ends.
I don’t know if Voss will show Asher my message. Or if he’ll remember telling me that the minute I told him to follow my lead, he was all in. But I have to find some way to close the distance between us. To tell him I’m close. That wherever he is right now isn’t where this ends. For him or for us.
I need him to hold on a little longer.
I need him to know I’m coming.
Send.