When I finally closed the folder, he straightened, polite expectation returning to his face.
“Is there anything else? I would prefer to get on with my day,” he remarked.
“No,” I said. “Not at this point.”
He nodded, satisfied. “Then I assume I’m free to go.”
“Yes,” I said.
He stood smoothly, already victorious in his own mind. “I hope this puts things to rest.”
“It clarifies them,” I replied.
That seemed to amuse him. “I’m glad to hear it.”
As he reached the door, he paused, hand on the knob.
“For what it’s worth,” he said lightly, “I’m sad Lydia is upset about this misunderstanding. She seemed like such a nice girl.”
I didn’t believe him for a moment.
the door closed behind him with a soft click that felt louder than it should have.
I sat alone for a moment, staring at the space he had occupied.
The chair across from me was empty now, the indentation in the cushion already easing back into shape, like Wickham had never been there at all. I gathered the papers slowly, aligning edges that did not need aligning, giving my hands something to do while my thoughts settled.
The interview hadn’t failed. That was the wrong word.
It had done exactly what Wickham had designed it to do which gave the belief that he had done this multiple times before.
Wickham had answered every question without contradiction. He had never raised his voice, never rushed, never claimed authority he couldn’t plausibly justify. He had placed himself just far enough from every decision to avoid responsibility while remaining close enough to benefit from the outcome.
That kind of precision didn’t happen by accident.
I stood, carried the file back to my desk, and was about to begin transcribing the interview. The record would show cooperation, clarity, and a lack of evidence sufficient to proceed. I had just gotten settled when Gail appeared.
“Lydia Bennet is in the lobby,” she told me before heading back to her desk.
I nodded and closed out the computer program.
When I stepped into the lobby, I caught sight of Wickham at the front desk. He laughed at something Gail said, easy and charming, the picture of a man inconvenienced but unbothered.
He glanced over his shoulder and saw me.
Our eyes met.
There was no challenge in his expression. Just a mild, knowing look, as if we were two men who understood the rules and had agreed to play within them.
He nodded once.
I did not return the gesture.
He left the station moments later, coat buttoned, stride unhurried, already blending back into the rhythm of the town. Watching him go, I felt the familiar frustration tighten in my chest that wasn’t anger exactly, but something colder. The knowledge that truth alone was rarely enough.
I turned back to the lobby seating area where Lydia was sitting, hands shoved deep into her pockets. She straightened the moment she saw me, searching my face before I had even crossed the distance.
“It’s over?” she asked.
