Chapter Fifty
Rheda
I lean over the CCTV footage like it’s my God.
It begins with a static frame. The interrogation room as it always is, contained, controlled, scrubbed of anything that might interfere with observation.
I watch myself enter. On screen, I look composed.
That is the worst part. My body is folding in on itself, but the camera keeps me clean.
Professional. Untouched. There is a fractional delay at the threshold and I see it immediately.
It’s subtle enough that it wouldn’t be noted in a standard review—no hesitation in posture, no visible falter—but I know what I’m looking for now.
The smallest disruptions. Things that don’t belong.
My hand tightens slightly around the mouse.
Frame by frame, I move forward.
I step inside. The door seals behind me. My shoulders draw in just slightly, almost imperceptibly, but I see it. I catalogue it. My body bracing before I consciously register why.
I advance the footage.
Peter is already seated. His posture is as expected: forward-leaning, engaged, controlled. The guards are in position. Deogal sits exactly where he should be, restrained, still.
I pause.
Rewind.
Play.
He does not move, not even a fraction. My eyes narrow, tracking him with a precision that borders on fixation. The footage continues, it confirms what I think happened.
I remember sitting.
I remember him speaking.
I remember—
My throat tightens.
The interaction unfolds exactly as it should with questions and responses. Peter interjecting, silence stretching where expected. Deogal speaks, but only when prompted. His gaze remains locked on me.
I watch his face, every frame, every micro-adjustment. The way he looks at me like I’m a source of amusement.
I lean closer to the screen, as if proximity will reveal something I’ve missed. My eyes begin to ache, but I don’t stop. I can’t, because if I do, I have to believe that this ball of dread in my stomach is unfounded.
I scrub back.
Play.
Pause.
My hand lifts unconsciously to my wrist. I slip under the bracelet.
My thumb grinds into the skin until pain blooms hot and mean beneath it.
I want a mark. I want something ugly enough to trust. A bruise.
A split. A ring of broken capillaries. Anything that proves my body isn’t inventing its own evidence.
But the skin stays smooth like nothing touched me.
The door opens behind me. I don’t hear it at first, only the shift in air. The faint change in pressure that pulls my attention away from the screen a fraction too late.
“Rheda.” Peter’s voice lands low.
I turn.
He stands in the doorway, one hand resting against the frame like even he is reluctant to cross the threshold. His posture is controlled, as always, but there’s something off in it. Something held too tightly beneath the surface.
My spine straightens automatically. “Yes?”
His eyes flick briefly to the paused footage, then back to me again, sharper now.
“You’ve attracted attention.” His eyes stay on mine when he adds, “Headquarters are here.”
For a second, I don’t understand the words.
My mouth goes dry instantly.
Headquarters.
The word opens something ugly in me.
“You need to come with me.” His voice is calm, but the sentence lands like a hand closing around my throat.
I nod once because anything else would look like panic. I push back from the desk. The chair scrapes softly against the floor, the sound sharp enough to make me flinch.
As I stand, that same wrong sensation moves over me again.
My eyes flick back to the screen on instinct alone.
The frozen image sits there exactly as I left it.
And yet, for one fractured second, I expect it to change.
I expect him to be looking back at me. I expect proof that I am not imagining any of this, or worse—that I am.
Peter shifts slightly. “Leave it.”
The words are simple, but they hit like a warning.
I realise then that my hand is still hovering near the controls, fingers half-curled like I was about to rewind again, like if I just looked one more time, I might find something that would save me.
Slowly, I pull it back.
When I turn, he still hasn’t moved from the doorway. He is watching me. There is something in his face that makes cold spread through my chest—something too measured, too quiet. Not suspicion exactly. Something worse. Like he has already seen enough and is only waiting to see what I will admit.
“After you,” he says.
I step past him, and he doesn’t move enough to let me.
I must brush close enough to feel the heat of him through the thin space between us. His shoulder almost catches mine. He could have stepped back. He chooses not to.
His voice comes low. “I’d advise you to be careful with your next few answers.”
The words slide under my skin like a blade.
“Whatever you think you’re hiding, stop acting like it isn’t showing.”
I stop for half a second. My stomach turns, cold and immediate. There is no threat in his tone, which somehow makes it worse. It’s as if he already knows I have something to hide, like this warning is mercy.
I keep my eyes forward. I don’t look at him. I walk into the corridor, into the harsh fluorescent light, trying to ignore the way my pulse has started climbing again.
By the time the door clicks shut, my pulse is in my throat. Peter walks beside me without looking over. And I understand, with a sick little drop in my stomach, that Deogal isn’t the one being watched anymore.