Chapter 17 #3
I thought harder. “That facts don’t matter if nobody bothers to establish them before the narrative takes hold.”
Better.
I narrowed my eyes. “You really like symmetry.”
It has uses.
“My turn.”
Yes.
“Why are you helping me?”
Because someone used my work to tell a lie.
The room seemed to get colder. This was philosophy or a lesson. It was a motive.
“Colin and Guy.”
Yes.
“You’re angry.”
No.
I almost laughed. “Really?”
Anger is inefficient.
“That is not the same as saying you aren’t angry.”
A pause.
Fair.
I leaned forward. “So what are you?”
Interested.
“In who copied you?”
In why.
“Why they chose those men?”
Partially.
“What else?”
My question.
I groaned. “What?”
Do you trust me?
That was almost funny.
“No.”
Thank you.
“I’m serious.”
So am I.
“Good.”
I tapped the pen against the notebook. “I don’t trust you. I believe you have information I need. I believe some of what you’ve told me can be independently verified. I believe you are manipulating the direction of my investigation.”
Yes.
The admission made me pause. “You admit that.”
Of course.
“Why?”
Because direction matters.
“That isn’t reassuring.”
It was not intended to be.
I smiled despite myself. “And if I stop going where you point me?”
Then you should.
That threw me. “What?”
If the evidence contradicts me, follow the evidence.
I stared at the screen. “If I discover you lied?”
Then expose it.
“If I discover you killed someone you claim you didn’t?”
Then expose it.
“If I discover you’re manipulating me for reasons that have nothing to do with Guy or Colin?”
Then expose that too.
My throat tightened. “You make it sound simple.”
No.
Nothing about this is simple.
For the first time all night, he didn’t offer a correction. No clever distinction.
I let the silence breathe.
Then I asked, “What do you want from me, Simon?”
The cursor blinked.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Long enough that I thought he might refuse.
Finish the story.
I frowned. “That’s it?”
No.
Of course not.
I waited.
Find out who changed the ending.
Every nerve in my body came alive.
Someone had taken the Auditor’s existing narrative and written their own conclusion onto it.
“Who?”
No.
I expected that. “Do you know?”
Yes.
That one I hadn’t expected. My pulse accelerated. “You know who killed them.”
Yes.
The room went utterly silent. I could hear nothing but my heartbeat. “Tell me.”
No.
“Why the hell not?”
Because you will not believe me.
“Try me.”
No.
“Simon.”
No.
The repetition was maddening. I stood. “Then what was the point of bringing me here?”
To determine whether you would accept a conclusion simply because I supplied it.
“I wouldn’t.”
I know.
“Then tell me and let me verify it.”
Not yet.
My temper snapped. “You do not get to drag me into an empty building at midnight, interrogate me about my childhood and my sex life, tell me two people close to this case were murdered by someone else, claim you know who did it, and then decide I haven’t earned the answer.”
The cursor remained still.
I planted both palms on the desk. “This is not your investigation.”
No.
“It isn’t your story.”
No.
“It damn sure isn’t your decision when I’m ready.”
Agreed.
That stopped me. I stared. “Then give me the name.”
No.
“You just agreed.”
I agreed that readiness is your decision.
“Then—”
Readiness and evidence are not equivalent.
I closed my eyes. Slowly, very slowly, I took my seat again. “You are the most infuriating interview I have ever conducted.”
You have interviewed senators.
“Point taken.”
The cursor blinked.
Find the second toxicology.
I picked up the pen once more. “Then?”
Find who requested it.
I wrote that down. “Then?”
Find who received the result.
Another note.
“Then?”
The next line took longer.
Ask why the wrong person knew before the physician did.
My pen stopped. It wasn’t an answer so much as a sequence. “Is that enough to get me there?”
Yes.
“To the killer?”
Yes.
“To you?”
No.
I smiled faintly. “Worth asking.”
Always.
“Are you done with killing the others on your list?”
The monitor went black.
I straightened.
“Simon?”
Nothing.
Then one final line appeared.
Your time is over.
I checked my watch. We had been talking for fifty-three minutes. It felt like ten.
“I have more questions.”
I know.
“Then don’t end the conversation.”
This one must end.
“Why?”
Because the others are becoming impatient.
My blood went cold. “Others?”
The monitor remained blank.
“Simon.”
No answer.
I looked toward the cameras.
Toward the door.
Flint. He was out there. Brewster? Had he followed us? Probably.
I frowned at the screen. “Who else is out there?”
No answer.
The cursor blinked.
Mallory.
My first name.
Not Ms. McBryan.
I went still. “You changed the rules.”
No.
You changed the relationship.
My breath caught. Before I could answer, the final words appeared.
Until next time.
The screen went black.
Completely.
No cursor.
No green light.
Nothing.
I sat alone in the soundproofed room with a blank notebook, one page of frantic notes, a stolen name, and far more questions than I'd brought in.
Simon.
I tested the name silently. It meant nothing. Which meant, for now, it meant everything.