The sound she makes when I lift the scalpel again is soft and animal, the sort of noise people make when they’re trying not to disturb a god. It shivers through her chest and catches in the back of her throat. She’s shaking so hard the chair rattles.
“Kayla,” she whispers, again, as if maybe this time my name will be an antidote instead of an invocation. “Please. Why are you doing this?”
I tilt my head. It’s a fair question. She’s earned an honest answer.
“Because,” I say, laying the cold flat of the blade back against the soaked bandage on her thigh, “you were going to let them take my baby.”
The word lands between us like a dropped tray. She flinches harder at that than she did at the last cut.
“That’s not—” She sucks a breath through her teeth when I press down. “That’s not what was going to happen.”
“Isn’t it?” I ease the edge in, not enough to deepen the wound, just enough to wake every nerve around it. Blood seeps through the gauze in a bright, fresh bloom. “You told me yourself. If I escalated again, the Director would authorise intervention. For the child’s safety.” I keep my voice light, almost conversational. “And look at me, Doctor. Escalating.”
Her eyes squeeze shut. Tears find the cracks in her skin and sting as they track through dried blood. “Protocols,” she rasps. “I have…protocols. I can’t just?—”
“You could have chosen me,” I say. “You chose their rules.” I let the point of the scalpel trace the edge of the bandage, drawing a neat crimson border. “So I’m choosing mine.”
She swallows, throat working around the taste of copper. “Call a code,” she begs. “You’ve made your point. Call for help, Kayla. There are people?—”
I laugh. It bubbles up without effort, bright and delighted, the sound I know she hates because she’s heard it on tapes that came with photographs. “There are no people,” I say. “Not any more. Everyone in the vicinity is dead. Austin, Harry, the jumpy one with the zip ties, the ones who never learned the difference between vigilance and swagger.” I lean in and lower my voice like I’m telling her a secret. “Isn’t it lucky you’re still alive?”
Her whole body shudders. “Oh God.”
“I don’t think He’s taking calls from this postcode,” I say. “But you can try, if it makes you feel better.”
She tries anyway. I watch her mouth the words silently, see the way her jaw shakes, see the way her fingers clench so hard around the armrests her knuckles go translucent. Prayer as muscle memory. How quaint.
“You won’t…get away with this,” she manages. “They’ll send more. The Director will?—”
“Yes,” I say, brightening. “That’s rather the point. Messages are no good if no one receives them.” I tap the blood-soaked bandage with the back of the scalpel. She yelps, a small, helpless sound. “You’re my courier.”
“Please,” she says again, the word fraying. “Please, Kayla. I’m begging you. Just…end it. If you’re going to kill me, just kill me.”
The honesty in that almost makes me soften. Almost.
“Oh, sweetheart.” I set the scalpel down, pick up a pair of forceps instead, turning them in my fingers until the light catches on the metal. “Your time will come. I promise. But I’m not finished having fun yet.”
The word fun makes her flinch like a slap.
I take her left hand and flatten it on the armrest. She tries to pull away; I pin her wrist with my palm and slide the forceps between her fingers, prising them apart. Her nails are clean. I did that earlier. Hygiene is important.
“Do you know what I’ve realised?” I ask, easing the tips under the nail of her index finger. She bites down on a scream so hard her jaw tremors. “You and I have very similar jobs.”
She shakes her head, eyes wild. “No?—”
“You dig around in people’s heads,” I continue. “Pull out the ugly bits. Hold them up to the light. Ask them why it hurts. I just start a little further down.”
I squeeze. The nail lifts a fraction, a shock of white pain splitting her composure wide open. The sound she’s been swallowing rips itself free, a strangled, ragged cry that scrapes the walls.Purposeful.She thrashes, and blood from her thigh wound splashes onto the floor in a little curve, pattering onto the tiles.
“Stop— Stop, please?—”
“Answer my question and I’ll stop.” I keep my tone calm, therapist-smooth. “Not that one, the important one.” I shift the forceps just enough to grind the sensitive quick. “How do I access your system?”
She blinks, dazed. “What?”
“Your system,” I repeat patiently. “The computer. The files. The Director’s notes. All the little narratives you’ve written about me. I want them.” I tilt my head. “You weren’t planning on deleting anything, were you? That would be unethical.”
Her gaze skitters to the door, then to the cabinet where her laptop lives, then back to me. “It’s secured,” she says, the remnants of professional pride fluttering weakly. “Two-factor authentication. You can’t?—”
