Chapter 17 #2
“Then I get to know how you obtained the information.”
No.
I barked out a laugh without humor. “That’s bullshit.”
You may refuse.
Right. Our compromise. Damn him. I remained standing.
“Fine. I slept with Elliot because it was a bad decision.”
Incomplete.
“You are really testing the limits of our agreement.”
I asked why.
“And I answered.”
You labeled the choice. You did not explain it.
I crossed my arms. “Grief. Exhaustion. Adrenaline. Proximity. Pick one.”
Those are circumstances.
“You’re impossible.”
Not presently.
My mouth fell open. Then I laughed despite myself.
“Was that a joke?”
My question.
“Right.” I walked back to the desk but didn’t sit. “At the time, Elliot was...” I searched for a description that didn’t feel like an excuse. “Safe.”
The word surprised me.
Apparently him too, because nothing appeared immediately.
“He was a known quantity,” I continued. “And I’d been living in a situation where almost nothing felt known. He understood the case. He understood what was happening. He was there.”
And Mr. Carter was not.
The words hit hard enough that I looked away. “That wasn’t why.”
Wasn't it?
“No.” This time, it was my answer that came far too quickly. I knew it. Simon probably knew it. Hell, if Flint were here, he’d damn well know it.
I rubbed my forehead. “Flint wasn’t an option.”
Why?
I gave the screen a hard look.
“That is absolutely another question.”
Correct.
“My turn.”
Proceed.
“Did you kill Colin Thorne?”
No.
Again. No hesitation or qualification.
“Did you attack him?”
No.
“Arrange it?”
No.
“Participate in any way in his death?”
No.
My heartbeat picked up. I sat again because my knees had begun to wobble and I refused to let that weakness show.
“Then whoever killed Colin and Guy wanted everyone to believe you did.”
Yes.
The first clean confirmation he had given me beyond denying the murders.
“Why?”
My question.
I closed my eyes. I should have negotiated a bulk rate. “Fine.”
What makes Mr. Carter different?
I opened my eyes again. “From Elliot?”
Yes.
The question irritated me for reasons I didn’t want to examine, including but not limited to the fact my personal life had nothing to do with this.
“Flint isn’t part of this investigation in an official capacity.”
Irrelevant.
“You asked what makes them different.”
To you.
I glared. “I’m beginning to regret giving you a name.”
You requested it.
“And you supplied it.”
Reciprocity.
“Right.”
I rubbed my thumb along the edge of the notebook. What made Flint different? Years of working together. A shared history. Trust. Arguments. Hotel rooms. War zones. Coffee. His ridiculous eggs.
That too-short couch and a lifetime subscription.
I exhaled. “With Flint, I don’t have to calculate every interaction.”
Not anymore?
There it was. The knife. I looked at the monitor. “You’ve been paying a lot of attention.”
You established that.
“Yes, I did.” Another pause. “He knows when to push me.”
So does Agent Brewster.
“Not the same.”
Why?
I hesitated. Because Flint stopped when it was my choice. Because Elliot pushed until my choice matched his or he risked losing me. Because one stood beside me and the other tried to put me somewhere he could keep me.
The distinction had never seemed so obvious before.
“Flint wants me safe.”
And Agent Brewster does not?
“I didn’t say that.”
Then the distinction remains incomplete.
“Elliot wants control.”
The cursor stopped.
For some reason, saying it here felt far worse than when I thought it back in Flint’s office.
“Flint wants me to come back.”
Another pause.
Better.
I stared at the word. “You are an asshole.”
Probably.
I snorted. “Glad we settled that.”
Your question.
“Yes.”
You asked why Simon?
He remembered. Of course he did.
“I did.” I tapped one foot against the leg of the desk. “Are you going to answer?”
Yes.
I waited.
Nothing.
“You know, timing is part of communication.”
I am aware.
I folded my arms.
Eventually, words appeared.
Simon was the first person who taught me that being correct and being believed are unrelated conditions.
The humor vanished from the room. I read the sentence again. There was more there. Far more.
He’d named a person, an origin, maybe even a wound or—maybe just maybe—another carefully selected narrativie.
“Who was he?”
Another question.
“Call it follow-up.”
No.
I smiled faintly. “Worth a try.”
My turn.
Of course, so I waited. The cursor blinked.
Why is this case so important to you?
“Colin was my friend.”
You were invested before. So that is irrelevant.
I almost flinched at his dismissal. “I told you, I want the truth.”
Incomplete.
“Well, that’s the only answer you’re getting.” Because I wasn’t going to let him deconstruct me thank you very much. “What happened to Guy during those eleven days?”
The cursor blinked. Would he continue?
He survived.
“I know.”
Do you?
“He was alive.”
That is not synonymous with survival.
“Then define it.”
No.
I almost threw the pen. “You are enjoying this.”
Perhaps.
“Simon,” I began. “Clarification of the question.”
Continue.
“Guy survived the initial assault. He underwent surgery. He remained in intensive care. He never regained meaningful consciousness according to the records we have.”
According to the records you have.
My skin prickled. “Something is missing.”
Yes.
“Fourteen pages.”
At least.
I went still. “At least?”
My question.
I swore under my breath. “What do you want to know?”
Why did you accept fourteen as the total?
I stared at him—at the screen. “Because that’s the gap in the numbering.”
And?
“Because the billing records indicate services that aren’t documented.”
And?
My brain accelerated. I tried to recall everything in the files we’d put together. When it hit me, I wanted to smack myself. “The missing records aren’t contiguous.”
No.
“They weren’t fourteen pages removed from one place.”
No.
“They were records generated separately.”
Yes.
Someone hadn’t simply pulled a section from a file. Someone had cleaned a trail.
“How many?”
My question.
Of course. I gripped the pen. “What do you want?”
Why do you believe the attack killed Guy Reardon?
The question from the phone call. I answered more carefully this time. “Because he died eleven days later from injuries sustained during the assault.”
That is a conclusion.
“Based on his hospitalization.”
Based on chronology.
I frowned. “You think something else killed him.”
I think you should examine the evidence.
“I’m trying.”
No. You are trying to obtain someone else's interpretation of it.
That irritated me because—again—he wasn’t entirely wrong. “What should I look for?”
A second toxicology order.
I froze. “We know about the supplemental toxicology.”
Not that one.
Everything inside me sharpened. “There were two?”
Yes.
“When?”
My question.
“Goddammit.”
The cursor blinked. I could practically feel him waiting.
“What do you want to know?”
If you discover that someone killed Mr. Reardon after he survived the attack, what will you do?
The question settled differently than all the others. Not who. What.
I looked at the blank notebook in front of me.
“Report it.”
Even if the person responsible believed killing him served a greater purpose?
“Yes.”
Even if exposing that person damages the investigation into me?
I hesitated. “Those are separate crimes.”
Are they?
“They have separate perpetrators.”
Do you know that?
“No.”
Separate motives?
“I don’t know.”
Separate consequences?
I exhaled. “No crime exists in a vacuum.”
Precisely.
“But that doesn't absolve anyone.”
I did not suggest it did.
“Then my answer stands. If someone murdered Guy after the attack, I expose them.”
Regardless of who?
“Yes.”
Regardless of motive?
“Yes.”
Regardless of consequence?
I opened my mouth. Stopped. There it was. The price. Every principle sounded easy until the consequences had names.
Colin.
Guy.
Flint.
Elliot.
The FBI investigation.
Victims whose families might lose justice if revealing one truth compromised another.
I hated that he—Simon—had brought me here. “I verify first.”
Good.
“I corroborate.”
Yes.
“I give the person an opportunity to respond.”
If possible.
“And then I report.”
Even if the truth harms someone you care about?
I looked at the monitor. “Yes.” The answer hurt. That was probably why it mattered.
The cursor blinked for several seconds.
I believe you.
That unsettled me more than Better ever had. I leaned back. “My question.”
Proceed.
“You said the second toxicology exists. What was found?”
No answer.
The cursor blinked.
Once.
Twice.
“Simon?”
I will not give you that answer.
The refusal was almost refreshing. “Why?”
Another question.
“Fine. Why won’t you answer?”
Because then it becomes my conclusion.
I frowned. “And you want it to be mine.”
No.
The correction came swiftly.
I want it to be supported.
That silenced me. He wasn’t asking me to trust him. Quite the opposite. He wanted me to verify his data.
Trust, but verify.
My stomach tightened. That phrase belonged to me. To Flint. To our work. Not him.
“Where do I find the order?”
That I can answer.
I waited.
The words came slowly, one line at a time.
Do not request medical records.
Request laboratory billing reconciliation for the final seventy-two hours of Mr. Reardon's admission.
A second line.
Compare the accession numbers to the pathology department's specimen log.
One number will not belong.
I stared. That was—almost violently specific and testable. Exactly the kind of lead I could corroborate without believing a word he said.
“Why are you helping me?”
My question.
I sighed. “You have got to be kidding me.”
No.
“Fine.”
What did the student accused of cheating teach you?
I blinked. We had come all the way back to eleven-year-old me. “That being right after the fact doesn’t undo the damage.”
Incomplete.