"I can't," he says. "I can't go back there. I can't—"
"Elliot." I reach out, take his hands. The contact grounds him. I feel his pulse hammering against my palms. "You're here. You're in my apartment. Count my fingers."
His eyes drop to our joined hands. His lips move silently. Counting.
"Ten," he says finally. "You have ten fingers."
"Good. Name something you can see."
"The lamp. The books on your shelf. Your eyes." He exhales shakily. "Grey. Your eyes are grey."
"Good. You're here. You're present." I don't release his hands. "We can stop."
"No." He shakes his head. "I saw the files. I remember seeing them. If I can just—" He closes his eyes again. "There was a red folder. He kept it separate from the others. I saw a name on the front. The letters were gold."
"What name?"
Silence. His brow furrows. He's reaching for something buried deep, clawing through layers of trauma and time.
"Harrison," he says.
The word stuns me.
"What?"
"Harrison." His eyes open. "The folder said Harrison. I remember because I thought it was strange. It was the only one with a person's name. The others were numbered."
My mind races. Harrison. My name. My family's name.
There are files on my family in Moore's archive. Files that Moore kept separate, special, marked in gold.
"Did you open it?" I ask. My voice comes out flat, controlled. "Did you see what was inside?"
"No. I heard him coming. I had to get out." He's shaking now, the tremors running through his whole body. "I'm sorry. I should have looked. I should have—"
"You did well." I squeeze his hands. "You survived. That's what matters."
But my mind is already elsewhere. Already calculating.
Moore has files on my family. Files he considers important enough to separate from his other records. Files that could contain information about the Harrisons that even I don't know.
Information that could be leverage against The Silent itself.
"We're done for tonight," I say. "You need to rest."
Elliot nods weakly. He's exhausted, wrung out, barely holding himself together.
I help him to his feet, walk him to the bedroom, pull back the covers. He climbs in without protest, too tired to resist.
"Jace," he says as I turn to leave.
I stop at the doorway.
"Will you stay? Just for a little while?"
I should say no. I have work to do. Plans to make. A new variable to factor into my calculations.
"Yes," I say instead.
