“You,” I went on, “are trying to pull her away from danger. She is moving toward it. Not because she’s reckless—but because she’s curious.”
Flint looked toward the bathroom door. Closed. Silent.
“And you?” he asked. “What are you doing?”
I met his gaze fully now.
“I’m making sure that when it moves,” I said, “it moves where I can see it.”
He stared at me for a long moment, something dark and conflicted working behind his eyes.
“You sound very sure you can control this.”
“I’m sure I canshapeit,” I said. “There’s a difference.”
From down the hall, the shower kicked on. The low rush of water filled the space between us.
Flint exhaled slowly, like he was realizing something he didn’t want to know.
“You’re not worried about her getting hurt,” he said.
“I’m worried about losing visibility,” I replied.
“That’s worse.”
“Yes,” I agreed. “It is.”
He shook his head, a quiet, incredulous laugh slipping out. “You really don’t care how this looks.”
“I care how it works.”
The water continued to run. Ten minutes, she’d said.
Flint took a step back, reassessing. Not retreating. Recalibrating.
“You think she’s choosing this,” he said.
“She thinks she is,” I replied.
“And what? You’re just letting her believe that?”
“Yes.”
Because belief was momentum. Right now, momentum was everything.
I glanced once toward the hallway—not to intrude, not to imagine—but to mark the timing. The cadence. The inevitable reentry.
Three forces.
One pivot point.
She thought she’d stepped away to regain control. All she’d done was tighten the circle.
Chapter
Ten
THE AUDITOR
