Chapter Thirty-Six
Rheda
I turn every light on in the flat. Every single one. Bedroom. Kitchen. Bathroom. Hallway.
The brightness barely helps. Shadows still gather wrong at the corners of the room now like darkness has learned how to breathe.
I don’t sleep again. Not really. His face haunts my thoughts. Broken, carved into agony. A vulnerable boy stripped of his dignity, pushed to breaking point.
My chest seizes. If it was them, if he murdered the Friars then I could understand...
“No,” I whisper.
My throat still tastes damp. My lungs still ache like they’ve been fighting for air that wasn’t there. I press both hands over my mouth, breathing hot and shallow into my palms, trying to trap myself in something real.
I reach blindly across the bedside table for my phone. The screen lights up with missed calls. Three from Olivia. Two from last night. One from this morning.
And beneath them, messages.
21:09pm Are you alive?
22:15pm You missed dinner, bitch.
04:47am Seriously. Are you okay?
That last one sits there differently.
I stare at it too long.
Olivia has always been the person who notices first. She’ll pick apart the way I pause too long before answering, the way I cancel twice in one week, the way I start saying I’m just tired like it means something.
She knows my tells.
And lately, I am made of them.
There’s another message too, from Joe.
I’m looking forward to Saturday ??
Something twists in my chest.
My thumb hovers over the keyboard once. Twice. I should tell him. A normal person would tell him. Send a quick message explaining that something came up, that I’m overwhelmed with work, that I can’t do this right now. Anything would be kinder than disappearing.
Because otherwise he’ll show up.
Guilt crawls under my skin at the thought of it.
But every time I try to type, my body locks against it.
I can’t even talk to him.
My breathing turns uneven again.
Before I can stop myself, I hit his profile.
Block contact.
The confirmation box appears. Then my thumb presses it.
And just like that, he’s gone.
I lock the screen so I can’t receive any more calls.
I can’t talk to anyone about this. Because I don’t know how to explain this.
How do I tell someone that I am thinking about a man I should be helping kill?
How do I explain that every time I close my eyes, I can still feel him there.
Watching. Waiting. Like distance is just another thing that doesn’t apply to him.
That something supernatural is happening.
That I don’t understand it but I trust it.
My body refuses to budge; it feels like I’ve run a marathon twice. My jaw aches. My throat feels tight, like fingers have been there recently. When I swallow, there’s a phantom taste of copper that makes me cringe.
By the time I reach the facility, I have checked behind me seventeen times.
I count because counting feels better than admitting I’m afraid of empty corners.
Every reflection catches me wrong. The black windows.
The polished lift doors. The blank glass panels along the corridor.
Each one looks like it might hold something if I stare long enough.
Something old.
Something watching back.
I tell myself it’s exhaustion. Then I tell myself it again. By the third time, it stops sounding like an explanation and starts sounding like begging.
I don’t stop to say good morning. I don’t put my bag down properly. I barely register the security gate closing behind me before I’m already slumping into the chair. The lights above me flick harshly. It only adds to my pounding headache.
My hands are shaking.
I slip into the computer room, checking over my shoulder twice.
I pull Deogal’s file from my drawer and dump it onto the desk. The sound is louder than it should be the paper sounding like wood. I flip it open, flicking through the pages of notes, reading the same redacted reports I’ve studied a dozen times already.
None of them fit my dream.
The place wasn’t modern. It wasn’t institutional. Everyone spoke English. Not formal but not archaic either.
I open my laptop and start typing.
Ancient settlements England.
Rural medieval housing forest edge
Market towns jewellery trade.
My searches spiral. I sift through images of huts and reconstructions, academic papers, archaeological dig reports. Nothing matches exactly.
I switch tabs, trying something else.
Friars. Torture.
The search engine flags multiple entries but with each click and scroll, I realise that I’m drawing a loose end.
None of it is proof. It’s not evidence.
I slam the laptop shut.
The sound ricochets around the office, and my pulse spikes immediately.
Maybe I should confide in Peter—let him know that work doesn’t stay in this building, it seems to follow me into my sleep. That I’m awaking more fatigued than when I’m putting my head down.
I should put some space between myself and this case. I know it’s not good. I know there’s an unhealthy bond burning.
And yet, I open my laptop again.
My fingers hover.
I click onto history without knowing I’ve done it. Every search stares back at me like a confession.
My throat tightens.
And then—
Delete.
Delete.
Delete.
The screen clears the past hour of searches like it never happened, like I never went looking.
The door opens.
I nearly jump out of my skin, a scream on the tip of my tongue.
Sean freezes halfway through stepping in, coffee in hand. He spots me.
“You’re here early,” he says, brows lifting. His gaze flicks to the clock above me and then back at my face. “Your shift doesn’t start for another hour.”
I swallow hard. It pounds in my ribcage so loudly I swear he can probably hear it.
“Just had to answer some emails.” I lie quickly. My tone pitches at the end. I shoot back a question before he can delve deeper. “What are you doing here?”
“Peter sent me to get some things.” His gaze lingers on me a second longer than usual, then he squints. “Are you... sure you’re alright? You look ill.”
I still. “Thanks.”
He doesn’t smile.
“I didn’t mean—” he exhales awkwardly. “You know what I mean.”
I twist and busy myself with stacking files, aligning the papers so he won’t ask why they’re scattered. “We are approaching winter. I usually get sick at this time so it would figure.”
I cringe as soon as the words leave my lips.
He doesn’t believe me, and he doesn’t pretend to hide it. But he doesn’t press either. Instead, he moves to the left side of the room, hands already clicking the buttons on the printer. The beeps cut loudly between us.
I keep my back to him, trying not to look as stiff as I feel. I force my head down, pick up my pen, and pretend to tick something as though I have a to do list in front of me.
Then, the printer whirls. It’s loud, too loud, like the machine is grinding inside my skull. It churns out paper, each one sliding out and leaving a stain on my brain. But then, it stutters.
“Fuck.” He curses. I hear him tugging on the paper, and the screaming from the machine’s refusal.
“Let go.” He mutters under his breath.
The sound grows too much.
I turn. “Do you need help?”
Please say no.
“No.” He tugs the paper again.
But this time it tears the corner. He curses under his breath. “Okay, yes. Maybe.”
Damn.
I rise slowly.
The machine whirs again. Sean braces one hand on the side panel and pulls at the crumpled corner with the other.
“Don’t,” I start, but it’s too late.
The paper rips with a dry, ugly sound.
He exhales sharply. “Brilliant.”
I reach past him, clicking the power button. The machine splutters once and then dies mid-whirl. Silence drops heavier than the noise was.
I crouch, fingers sliding under the plastic lip. The trapped sheet is folded in on itself, teeth marks staining the paper from the rollers embedded in the page. Words stretch and warp where the ink has dragged.
I steady the tray with my palm before gently tugging the paper free, slower this time. It resists, then gives with a soft sigh.
For a split second, the sensation jolts through me...
Cloth tearing.
Chains shifting.
It’s awfully familiar, like a memory is being dragged up through my chest.
I blink hard.
“Got it,” I say, forcing my voice steady.
I smooth the page out, though the corner hangs mangled and useless.
We stay in silence and it stretches for far too long.
Sean is watching me now.
“You’re shaking,” he says quietly.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not.”
“I said I’m fine.” The words land sharper than I mean them to.
He doesn’t react, just reaches past me and click the power button again. The machine hums back to life.
I rise to my feet slowly.
He gathers the pages as they spill into the tray, his nails scraping on the plastic. He doesn’t look at me while he stacks them. His movements are efficient. Detached. But his eyes are flat and tired. He looks away like I’m nothing.
Frustration bubbles within me.
“Did I...” the words start before I can swallow them. “Do something? To you, I mean.”
He pauses mid-stack. “What?”
“You’re...” I hesitate. “quiet around me.”
“I’m a quiet person.”
My cheeks burn.
“Right,” I say, “Yeah, I get that, but it just seems personal from the very first day.”
He pauses. He lets the humiliation turn my face red, then he exhales slowly, like he’s deciding whether this conversation is worth having.
He finally looks at me.
“I’ve got a newborn who doesn’t know the difference between night and day.” He says tightly. “Shift work makes it harder.”
“Oh,” I offer lamely. I’m not sure how else to respond.
He glances down briefly like he’s deciding whether to say anything, but then his gaze lifts.
“I was meant to go on paternity leave the week we started this case.” His jaw tightens slightly. “That’s not happening now, is it? So, excuse me if I seem a bit distant.”
“Gosh,” I blink back the surprise. “I didn’t know.”
There’s a pause. I can’t help asking. “Why did you take the case then?”
“I didn’t take the case.” He stills, gaze hardening. “It took me.”
The words sit between us for a second too long.
“Peter needs me for this.” He continues. “I just want it done. Clean. No complications. So, I can go home and be with my family.”
The silence burns between us uncomfortably.
“I’m sorry, Sean.” I say, quietly. “That must be hard for you.”
The muscles in his back are tight and furious, and his nostrils flare. “It’s hard for everyone. This isn’t an easy case.”
I swallow hard.
“What’s your baby’s name?” I ask quietly.
He hesitates, that small, fractional pause.
“Theo.” He doesn’t smile when he says it. Not really. It’s like he’s protecting the information by keeping it small.
“That’s nice.” I offer a small smile. “Well, let’s get this case sorted and you can go home to Theo.”
“Yeah.” He says and then pauses. His eyes flick down to the paper.
“If you’ve got nothing else to do,” he says abruptly, lifting the stack, “we need help with this.”
I frown. “What is it?”
“The write-up.” He nods toward the corridor. “Peter wants the behaviour summary tightened before the next review. He needs something to present to the board.”
“What kind of summary?” I ask carefully.
“Baseline response patterns. Threat risk. Resistance documentation.” His eyes flick to mine briefly. “The usual.”
“And you need me for that?”
“You’re the behavioural specialist,” he says plainly. “Unless you’d rather stay here answering emails.”
There’s something deliberate in his tone, but I don’t want to place it.
I nod once. “Fine.”
He gestures toward the door with the papers tucked under his arm. I hesitate only a second before following him.