Chapter Four
Rheda
The corridor changes the moment I turn into it, and my body knows it before my mind catches up. The air is cooler here, but heavier, like it’s been sealed too long. My heels strike the floor, and the sound carries further than it should.
I know the left side of the prison: it’s rhythms and blind spots, but this corridor feels withheld. Hidden until now.
Two large doors loom ahead, reinforced steel sunk deep into the walls. No windows. No visible handles. Just a narrow scanner set into the frame, it’s red light pulsing faintly.
I slow as I approach, heart beginning to thud with a little more insistence.
My ID card hangs against my chest, cool against my blouse. I lift it, watching the plastic sway once before I press it to the scanner. There is a brief pause, long enough for doubt to creep in. Then, the scanner beeps. The door buzzes and unlocks with a sound that feels final.
The corridor beyond is narrower, longer, lined with identical doors spaced at even intervals. It resembles prison cells more than interrogation rooms. Each one bears a number in stark black font. No indicators of who, or what, might be behind them. Just numbers, marching forward in orderly silence.
I glance down at my watch as I walk.
06:10 a.m.
Twenty minutes early.
The second-hand creeps forward, inch by inch, as if reluctant to move.
I slow near the end of the corridor, checking the note once more in my grip, though it’s not needed. I have studied these numbers repeatedly, from the minute Peter left, to the second I’ve stepped foot into this corridor.
Room sixty-six waits at the end of the corridor like it already knows I’m coming.
I peer up again.
Sixty-three.
Sixty-four.
Sixty-five
Sixty-six.
I stop.
The door looks identical to the others.
I wait outside the door long enough for my pulse to make itself known. I draw in a deep breath, steadying myself.
I raise my hand, knuckles barely brushing the door before it opens suddenly.
“Miss Ainsley.” Peter Holmes stands in the gap like he’s been waiting for me. He steps aside and gestures me in. “Come through.”
The door clicks shut behind us, sealing with a sharp vacuum sound that makes my ears pop.
The two guards are already here, sprawled out on the chairs, mid conversation.
I notice the ex-military man first. He stiffens the moment I step inside.
His lips pull tight, eyes lifting to track me with careful precision.
Not curiosity. Caution. There is something wary in the way he watches me, as if being looked at this closely makes him uncomfortable.
When our gazes meet, he readjusts his grip on his weapon.
To his left is the younger guard with dusty blonde hair shaved into a buzz cut.
A boyish face, round and flushed, dotted with faint stubble that leaves his skin uneven, pitted in places where the hair refuses to grow cleanly.
He’s tall and lean, all limbs and angles, his uniform sitting a fraction too lose for his frame.
“The name’s Mike.” He leans forward, hand already out.
I take it out of politeness. His grip lingers as though he’s stretching the seconds out. He shakes once, twice, before finally releasing me.
“Rheda,” I say, already turning.
The other guard glances up just long enough to acknowledge me.
“Sean.” It’s one word. Flat. He drops his eyes immediately, returning his attention to the helmet resting on his lap.
The dismissal is deliberate.
Message received.
“Don’t mind him,” Mike says cheerfully, nudging my arm as if we’re already familiar. “Always grumpy, this one. Isn’t that right, mate?”
Sean makes a low sound, not quite a reply, and shifts in his seat.
Peter Holmes steps forward.
“This will be your new station.” He says, gesturing around the dim room, lit primarily by the soft glow of screens.
Cameras. Monitors. Rows of computers humming quietly, their displays alive with feeds and data.
Along the far wall sits three tall filing cabinets, each drawer tagged with neat white labels.
Too many paper files for a place this classified.
I take it all in slowly. Recognition settles.
We’re behind the glass. The one-way glass.
My gaze fixes on the darkened interrogation room beyond the glass. Empty, for now. One desk under the fluorescent lights. Three chairs waiting around it. Quiet. Still.
He points to the far side of the room. “We have a coffee station. We will be doing shift work when the criminal isn’t in active interrogation, so there should be plenty of time to rest too.”
I glance over at the table with a large, expensive coffee machine and multiple paper cups. Sugar packets are spread everywhere, as are chocolate biscuits wrapped individually. There is a bin next to the station, already overfilling with an array of used cups and wrappers.
I let out a small, nervous laugh. “We don’t get this kind of treatment on the other side.”
His mouth tightens into something like a smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “We make sure our staff are looked after.”
He gestures to a chair. “Sit. Get comfortable.”
“Thank you, Detective,” I say.
His mouth twitches. “If we’re working together, you can call me Peter.”
For a second, I forget how to breathe. It’s ridiculous, the small, stupid thrill that runs through me at something so simple, but I feel it anyway—sharp and private, curling low in my stomach.
Not because of him, I tell myself. Because of what it means.
Access. Trust. A seat at the table people like Terry Richards spent years making sure I never reached.
I keep my expression neutral, even as something smug and deeply unprofessional rises in me.
“Of course,” I reply, smooth enough this time. “Peter.”
I shrug out of my coat and drape it over the back of it before sitting.
“He’s going to be here soon.” He slides a file toward me. “Get familiar with it.”
My thumb presses lightly into the paper, feeling the faint textures of the fibres beneath the gloss.
I read the heading.
RECIPIENTS: Detective Peter Holmes; Dr Rheda Ainsley
SOURCE: Directorate—Special Case Unit
CASE ID: SCU-D/ATTOR
Personal Identifiers:
NAME RECORDED: Deogal Attor
APPROXIMATE AGE: Mid-30s (est.)
NATIONALITY: Redacted
KNOWN ALIASES: N/A
My eyes flick to his presenting status.
Subject currently non-communicative in formal interview settings.
Observed prolonged silence during standard interrogation procedures.
I pause. “He’s refusing to talk?”
Peter nods. “He hasn’t said a word since transfer or intake. Nothing. We’re taking over from the last unit that had him.”
I let my gaze drift back over the behavioural notes, the redactions interrupting the text like missing teeth. There’s a rhythm to what’s been withheld—medical, psychological, neurological. It’s hard to create a clear image in my mind when they’ve removed almost everything worthy of note.
I flip the page.
Intelligence links subject to three confirmed homicides. Further investigations ongoing.
Details classified.
Homicide. Mutism. Control.
My pen taps once against the page. I think of the men who use silence as leverage. The desperate ones. The defiant ones. The ones who understand that saying nothing can be its own kind of power.
The words fall into place softly.
I glance at Peter. “How long has he been in custody?”
“A month.”
“A month?” I blink. “Why hasn’t he been charged yet?”
“You’d do well to remember this isn’t a normal criminal,” he says slowly. “We are not the left side of the prison. We do not follow the same rules.”
My heart stutters once. “But it’s the law?”
His gaze sharpens.
“You are here to sit behind the glass, read his body language, and take notes,” he continues. “You will not judge our methods.”
I blink, the surprise hitting too fast to fully hide. “I won’t be speaking to him?”
His fingers tighten around the file he’s holding. “You are not to interact with the criminal under any circumstance. You will be safe behind the glass.”
I still. Something in my chest pulls tight, sharper than I expect, and I have to force it down before it reaches my face. The reaction is immediate enough to annoy me.
He passes me a notepad and a black pen.
“This is yours. Take down anything you feel is necessary. We’ll review it afterwards.” He gestures to the file. “What do you make of it so far?”
I take the pen, press the tip against the paper, and make myself focus.
“There’s not much information to go off but...” I say slowly. “Silence like this isn’t passive. It’s protection or leverage.”
Peter watches me carefully. “So?”
“So, he’s not afraid,” I say. “And he’s not panicking. Which means whatever we’re dealing with here isn’t reactive, especially if this has been going on for a month.”
I straighten, squaring my shoulders.
“Whatever he’s protecting,” I say quietly, “he believes it’s worth more than his freedom.”
For the first time since I arrived, something shifts in Peter’s expression. Not surprise exactly, but recognition. Approval.
He nods once. “Quite right.”
The words settle heavily in my chest.
“Good work, Doctor Ainsley,” he says after a moment, quieter now. “Maybe your colleagues were right about the mind reader thing after all.”
Heat crawls faintly up my neck, but it doesn’t settle properly. Because even with Peter’s approval sitting warm in my chest, something still feels off.
Sitting behind glass. Just watching.
It feels wrong in a way I can’t quite explain yet, like I’m being kept away from something I’m supposed to touch.