12. What is the truth?
I blink in surprise, momentarily speechless. I hadn't expected him to actually take my words literally. Despite the casual way he's positioned himself, there's nothing submissive in his posture.
"So tell me," he says again, placing one hand on the table. His fingers drum against the wood, impatient. He looks at me expectantly. "I'm listening."
He holds himself upright, proud even on his knees, head tilted slightly as he watches me. He is definitely mocking me.
I try to concentrate again, gathering the scattered threads of my thoughts. The proximity is unsettling.
"Tyler and Ivan were out in the woods," I begin, trying to recall the details of their story. "They were playing guards, and Ivan had his father's hunting rifle with him."
I pause, watching his expression shift subtly.
"Continue," he says, his voice serious. All traces of that earlier sarcasm vanished, replaced by something calculating.
Without meaning to, my eyes flicker toward the door. Good to know my instincts aren't completely gone.
"Continue," he demands again, sharper this time.
I pull my gaze back to him, swallowing hard. "They had borrowed the hunting rifle from Ivan's dad and..." I stop, thinking on how to say the next part. I don't want to say it.
"Say it," his tone cuts through my thoughts.
"They were messing around when the wolf stepped out. Tyler tried to take the rifle from Ivan and the gun accidentally," I emphasize this word as much as I can, willing him to believe it, "went off and hit the wolf."
He's completely still for a moment, processing the new information. "Interesting story," he finally says, each syllable dripping with barely contained anger.
"It's not a story," I counter, leaning forward slightly. "They were extremely panicked. That wasn't the act of someone shooting in cold blood."
His hand balls into a fist on the table, knuckles white with tension. He abruptly stands up, pushing away from me and walking as far as the small room allows. His back is to me now, shoulders tense beneath his shirt.
"Then why was the shot precisely between his eyes?" He doesn't turn around as he speaks, but his voice fills the room.
It takes a moment for his words to register. "What?" I ask, confusion washing over me.
"The shot." He turns now, facing me with a cold fury that makes me shrink back instinctively. "If you believe so much it was an accident, then why did our wolf die from a shot directly between the eyes?"
My mind races with possible explanations, doubt creeping in for the first time. "This is..." I stop myself.
What exactly happened that day? The way Tyler and Ivan described the encounter, it wouldn't make any sense for the shot to land precisely between the eyes.
That is a shot to kill. That does not sound like an accident at all.
An accidental discharge while frightened would result in a wild shot, not. ..perfect aim.
"Finally, we're starting to get somewhere, Communicator," he says, watching comprehension dawn on my face. He shakes his head, disgust evident in every line of his body. "Maybe you should have had those principled conversations on eye-level with your humans."
Well, maybe I should. Maybe I should call them right now. Maybe I should call Ivan and Tyler and demand an explanation. Maybe I should call John asking for more information about the—I reach for my bag instinctively, then remember the drowned phone sitting uselessly on a table back in town.
"Look," I say, trying to regain some control of the situation. "If what you're saying is true—"
"If?" he interrupts, voice dangerously soft.
"I'm being objective," I counter. "I haven't seen the body. I only have your word that the shot was between the eyes."
"And the word of a wolf means nothing to a human," he finishes, bitterness edging his tone.
"That's not what I meant."
"Isn't it?" He stalks closer again, reclaiming the space between us. "Let me ask you something, Communicator. Why do you think they sent you here? To New Area?"
The abrupt change of subject throws me. "I— what?"
"To a town near the territory of one of the most powerful wolfpacks in the region?" His eyes bore into mine. "Known for their...what was it your CdC file described us as? Ah yes, 'unprecedented aggression and territorial expansion.'"
I stare at him, my mouth suddenly dry. "How did you—"
"Why send someone new? Someone untested?" he continues, ignoring my half-formed question. "Someone who, by your own admission, just completed training?"
I have no answer for this. The question has been nagging at me since Dr. Miller's call, but I've been too busy surviving to really examine it.
"I'm qualified," I say weakly, knowing how pathetic it sounds.
"I'm sure you are," he responds, surprising me with what sounds almost like sincerity. "But that's not why they sent you."
"Then why?" I challenge.
"Because they were expecting this to happen." He gestures broadly, encompassing everything—the town, the shooting, me being here. "They wanted this. They've been pushing for months, looking for any excuse."
"That's ridiculous," I argue, but there's a hollowness to my protest. "Why would anyone want a conflict?"
"Power. Resources. Fear." He counts them off on his fingers. "Take your pick. The same reasons humans have always found to eliminate what they don't understand."
The pieces are starting to align in my mind, clicking together in a way I don't want to acknowledge.
Dr. Miller's strange warnings about failure not being an option.
The lack of proper briefing or backup. And John.
.. well, John just being John. A misogynistic asshole completely fine with sacrificing me for his own good.
"If they wanted a conflict, why send a Communicator at all?"
"Pretense," he replies instantly. "So they can say they tried diplomacy first. So when the bloodshed starts, they can claim they did everything possible to prevent it.
" He stops for a second. "And they thought they sent the most incompetent Communicator, thinking you will fail, thinking no one will take you seriously. "
Fuck. This is actually finally making some sense now.
"If you're right," I say slowly, "then why didn't you attack? Why go through this charade of taking me instead of the boys? Why not give them exactly what they wanted?"
"Because that's what they wanted," he says, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "They want a reason. They want us to be the aggressors, to prove we're the animals they claim we are."
I shake my head, struggling to process everything. "But a boy is dead. One of your own is dead."
"Yes." The single word carries the weight of grief, anger, and something else—determination, perhaps. "And whoever is responsible will answer for that."
He studies me for a long moment, and I have the uncomfortable feeling he can see right through me. "Sooner or later, Communicator, you'll need to decide whose side you're really on."
"I'm not on anyone's side," I protest, taking a step toward him.
"I am giving you the opportunity to choose." He says, coming closer.
"I can't do that," I answer honestly.
Before he can respond, there's a sharp knock at the door. His demeanor changes instantly, the tension gone as he becomes controlled once more.
A woman stands in the doorway—the same stern-faced one from earlier who called me "not much." She glances at me briefly before turning her attention to him.
"We need you," she says briskly. "The council is waiting."
He nods once. "I'll be right there."
She leaves without another word, disappearing back into the night. He turns to me, his expression carefully neutral once more.
"Stay here," he orders. "Don't try to leave this cabin. It wouldn't end well for you."