Chapter Three #2
Something dark and eager wakes up in me before I can suppress it. It shouldn’t spark anything warm or bright in my chest, that letter. And yet, I feel the quiet glint of interest sharpening behind my eyes. I don’t smile openly. That would be unprofessional. But something in me stretches awake.
M is the code for multiple murders. It’s not ordinary violence, not men contained by routine, process or appeal. Class M is different. These are the ones who crossed something invisible and never came back. M stands for monster. M is a sentencing straight to Hell.
At least, that’s what I think.
Nobody says it out loud, but you learn to recognise the gaps: the missing files; the closed doors; the way certain names are never spoken twice. Whatever Class M is... It isn’t meant to be understood.
“I can help.” I say suddenly.
He doesn’t answer straight away. Doesn’t move either. The silence sits there, deliberate, like he’s giving the words time to settle—and fail on their own.
“I’m not convinced,” he says at last, voice clipped, already edging toward dismissal.
“You said it yourself,” My pulse is too loud in my throat now, but I keep my face still. “I have over a hundred successful cases this year. What more could you possibly want in a doctor?”
“I’m not looking for help,” he says. “I just need a signature.”
The words catch me off guard. “A signature?”
His grip shifts on the file, tightening slightly. His expression hardens a fraction, closing the gap I almost stepped into.
“This case is classified, Miss Ainsley. I can’t tell you any more than that.”
“I know,” I say, too quickly. “I know you can’t. But you should consider me—” My heart slams against my ribcage. “I can give you a signature. Whatever you need from me, you’ll get it.”
The muscle in his jaw strains.
“I can read people, too. Watch,” I say. “You’ve already decided to leave. But part of you is still debating it.” I let my gaze drop briefly, just enough. “Your feet are still angled towards me. If you’d made your mind up completely, your body would’ve followed it already.”
His posture shifts, almost imperceptibly, like he’s correcting it after realising.
A tell.
“And you’re tired,” I add quietly. “This case is already demanding more from you than it should.”
One of the guards shifts behind him, subtle but enough to pull at the air in the room. The movement is small, yet it lands like a question, like even his silence is asking who the hell I think I am.
I turn my head slightly toward him.
“You,” I say, nodding toward the man closest to the door.
He stiffens.
“You’re watching me instead of him,” I continue calmly.
“You’re right-handed. Ex-military, if I can guess by that scar on your neck, too deep and jagged to be surgical.
Too small to be a knife. Gun, most likely.
Right?” I suck in a sharp breath, getting carried away.
“You don’t like this assignment because it takes up too much time in your day.
I’ve seen the way you keep glancing at the clock.
And look at the way your finger is practically hugging the trigger.
You don’t trust the restraints to hold if things go wrong. ”
The guard blinks.
“How did I do?” I smile.
Peter’s attention snaps fully back to me. “How do you do that?”
“I’ve always been good at reading people,” I say. “Since I was a little girl.”
The room feels different now. Peter studies me for a long moment, something thoughtful flickering behind his eyes. Then, slowly, he lowers his hand from where it had been signalling the guards.
“Do you have family, Rheda?”
My head cocks to the side. “Like... in the area?”
“Sure.”
“No, Sir.”
His chin juts slightly. A small nod, approval.
“Any pets?”
I shake my head again.
“A boyfriend?”
This time my eyebrows burrow. “No?”
“Good.” He says tightly. “We will need your full attention on this case.”
“I can do that.” I say, and the eagerness slips out before I can temper it.
“What are you like under pressure?”
“I never crack.” I answer quickly. “I can handle anything.”
The words hang between us. The silence that follows has a pulse to it. I hold my breath.
He doesn’t answer immediately. His gaze drifts, unfocused, as though something in his thoughts has snagged on a doubt he hasn’t planned to examine so closely.
The lines in his face pull taut.
“Miss Ainsley,” he says finally. “This is an incredibly dangerous patient. Once you start working with us, there is no stepping away, no reassignments. You don’t get to decide halfway through that it’s too much.
” He watches my face closely as he speaks, searching for hesitation.
“You will see this case through to the very end.”
I nod once, slowly, the movement measured. “I understand.”
His eyes stay on mine a moment too long, and then he looks down. He pulls a pen from his pocket and reaches for a scrap of paper in the other one. He writes, the scratch of ink loud in the quiet room. When he finishes, he slides the paper across the table toward me without comment.
I pick it up.
A cell number. A block designation. A time.
I close my fingers around the paper, feeling its edges bite faintly into my palm.
“Grab a coffee or some food. Meet us there in an hour,” he says. “And don’t discuss this case with anyone other than me.”
I nod again.
He turns to leave without a word. The door closes behind them with a solid thud.
The room finally breathes again.
I tighten my grip on the paper and press it to my chest, holding it there as my pulse kicks, quick and uneven, like it can’t settle.
Class M.
Finally.